Breaking Point
by America La
Summary: Canada, sick of being influenced by his brother, America, decides to break free from Americas influencial shadow. But the path that he chooses to take may lead to a life of solitude and insantiy, was it really the moral choice to make?
1. Welcome to the Real World

Matthew's hand slid against the white wash door his hands shaking, covered in thick red blood that smeared freely across the stucco walls of the hallway.

Freedom, his brother had always told him, was Red, White, and Blue. The Blue was for the Justice that provided freedom for all. The White was of purity and innocence. And the Red for bloodshed, for valor.

He looked down at the blood smeared against the door. The blood looked like an outsider in the halls covered in thick white stucco, but it belonged more to this land than Matthew did. He flinched at the thought covering his eyes and ran blindly out of the building. The deed was done.

**

Long blonde hair hung like maple leaf's in Matthew's face. He was leaned back against a red upholstered chair with his bear, Kumajirou, who was sitting on his tan parka looking up at him with questioning eyes. He could almost guess the bears thoughts _"Who are you?" _ was probably at the top of the list. Looking down he closed his eyes trying not to scream "I'm Canada!" although screaming for him was just a mere whisper.

"Hello Canada" A fairly average man said rather uncomfortably as he entered the room, briskly strolling over to the brown wooden desk that Matthew was seated in front of "I'm glad you decided to come."

Canada sat up a bit straighter and brushed his blonde locks out of his soft blue-purple eyes "I didn't have much of a choice, did I, Sir." Mathew said it seemed that the man didn't hear him until Mathew saw a troubled expression befall his fairly average face. The shy country smiled.

Served his boss right to feel a bit uncomfortable around his nation, ever since his new boss's inauguration several months previously they had been at ends, but the way Matthew saw it the tense mood wasn't his fault. After all it had been his boss that wanted him shot, calling him an "abomination" and "a defiance to god" just as he took office. Since then their relationship had been nothing close to pristine.

"Yes, I guess you are right Canada" His boss replied, adjusting the red and white neck tine around his neck. "Do you know why you're here?"

_No, and I don't particularly care. _"No sir, your message only said to meet in your office, something about dealing with trouble to the south." Matthew wished he could have been impulsive like his brother, Alfred, and tell his boss bluntly what he thought but his better judgment constantly took over, steering him down a calm and polite path.

His boss let out a concerned sigh placing one hand on his head; he didn't dare my eye contact with the young nation. The man closed his eyes as though he was in pain and shook his head; almost like he was disappointed that Matthew didn't know every detail and small issue about his country. "Matthew…."

Canada looked at his boss in shock. He couldn't remember the last time his boss had called him by his human name, if he ever had. "Yes sir?" His voice shook slightly as though the use of his real name caused him to realize the severity of the situation, almost to the level of it being life or death.

"I'm sure you are aware that many of our, no your, citizens living on the border are being employed in the Untied States" Matthew nodded his head. He had been aware of this for some time. Each day during rush hour thousands of Canadians crossed the border to go to work stimulating his brother's economy instead of his own. Nothing made his blood boil more than his brother besting him.

It seemed like every time Matthew attempted to excel at something his brother would step on him. Every time he would almost make a mark on society America would step in and replace that small scratch with the indent of a stupid idea. He strived to be known and for others to care about his country, not matter how shy its personality was. The fact that no one knew who he was made his temper no better. Constantly he was beaten in alley ways or even out in public with no intervention because "America could handle himself." His body ached for days each time Cuba beat him up or whenever Russia felt like having a dispute. Each memory made his hands clench the chair harder and harder. His knuckles growing whiter in tune to his boss's hidden smile filled with pleasure.

"Well in the current economy, this has caused our labor force to decrease. Even though America is weakened we fear that the neighboring nation may grow stronger." The boss slid his chair out from the desk, then which he got up and began to pace around the room, looking up at the picture of Canadian landscapes that bordered the wall with a concerned guise written on his face.

"Yes. I was aware of that." Matthew whispered just as Kumajirou asked in a sweet voice

"_Who are you?"_

"I'm Canada gosh dang'it!" Matthew yelled throwing the bear on the floor. It let out a desperate cry. Matthew got down on the ground, he raised his fist back to punch the bear, his hand shook. Teeth clenched to keep from screaming, his right hand with knuckles white, gripped the chair leg. He began to throw a left hand forward when it collided with his boss's. He looked up into the bosses face, blue-purple eyes brimming with desperate tears. "What...what just happened?" Canada's voice was barely audible still shook with his previous furry.

"What happened was precisely the reason I called you here. All though I can't believe that is has already started so quickly…" He let go of the young nations hand and turned his back to him facing the large windows that looked out on a once blooming garden, now dead because of an early frost. "Well I supposed I should explain myself…"

"Yes explain away." The young nation sneered _What is wrong with me?_ He thought, more hot tears flow over his flushed cheeks.

"Matthew, your brother is trying to take us over."

"What?" Matthew asked, he pulled himself smoothly back onto the chair, Kumajirou carefully crawling back onto his owners lap. "I can't believe Alfred would attempt something so rash." _Yes I can_, he added to himself.

"The Nation's reasons are unknown, maybe to take back the jobs that he lost during the economic crisis. Either way I can find only one solution." Canada's boss turned around slowly and looked at the nation with somber eyes.

"I'm sorry to ask this of you Canada, but I need to you to kill America."


	2. Mon dieu

"Mon dieu!" Matthew cried, reverting back to his birth language of French. His body wanted to rise up from the chair. His body wished to strike down the man who would even dream of hurting another nation. But his mind kept him rooted to the spot. His hands white on the chairs arms to prevent himself from striking the man standing in front of him. "Why would you even propose something as insane as that?" He murmured his voice a bit high from sock.

"Like a said before," The man replied stepping around the desk and placing his hand on Mathew's head as though the young nation were a puppet and he had all the strings. "I see no other way that doesn't risk this countries safety."

"Then find a way!" He yelled with his more newly found voice. Matthew's body felt tense as the man's hand pushed harder on his head. He pushed himself upward but the boss's hand kept him down. Kumajirou gazed up at his owner with fearful eyes masked in a guise of concern. The bear slid off his master's lap, as though the floor was safer from any rash decisions the blonde would make.

A laugh erupted from the man's mouth. "You are such a child." His gaze directed down his black eyes meeting Canada's blue-purple. The Boss's lips parted in a cynical smile.

"And what is that supposed to mean!" Matthew yelled yet again, his voice shaking in anger and fear. He had come into this room thinking that the nation and his boss would simply be discussing economic recoveries, and now they were at homicide. What had the world come to? He pushed upward yet again, only to find the puppet master's hand still steadily in place.

"You think only of yourself." His Boss hissed, kneeling down to meet Canada's eyes. "Has it even crossed your mind that you would be a hero, that you would protect the people of this country, No" The Boss continued, banging his fist on the arm of the chair "it probably never did. You, Matthew Williams, were thinking about how to make a name for _yourself._ How to make _yourself known_ to the rest of the world, while you hid in your hole, while you stay safe from real life. How cowardice, how weak. The people need that Hero, Canada, and I am choosing you to fill the role. You can either stay inside your safe little hole or join the real world were you will be 'The Hero.'"

The Nation looked down, avoiding the piercing black eyes "I don't have much of a choice then, do I sir." He murmured through gritted teeth. _But that still doesn't mean what I have to do is right. _Matthew added in his head.

"And if it makes you feel any better," The Boss stood up, walking smoothly back over to his desk, and taking a seat. His face turned away from the Nation to hide a small triumphant smile. "It's either your death or your brother's."

Canada froze. "He would never kill me." He replied in a voice made of ice from his northern borders, "Don't talk about things you don't know about." Matthews's hands clenched into fists, his nails cut the insides of his pale palms. "My brother would never kill me," He whispered, trying to convince himself of the fact "because I'm going to kill him first." Matthew paused, what had he just said? Was this the stress from having the possibility of being taken over or did he really want to kill his brother? His head fell into the nation's hands, new tears running down his face. "If I kill him… will I be…normal…again?" His words were almost as quiet as when the conversation first began and shook as though is own mouth was afraid of saying them.

"Yes, I supposed you will go back to 'normal'" His Boss replied, almost amused by the fact that the nation wished to be a wallflower. "I'm glad we finally see eye to eye Canada and for that I have a gift for you." The Boss's smile seemed to reach from ear to ear while he pulled a dark object out of the inside of his jacket. He placed it on the table. A gun. "It's just a house warming gift for you new role in society." He said with a bit too much cheerfulness for a man who had just pulled a weapon of destruction out of his pocket. "I would like you to have it."

The black hand gun slid effortlessly across the dark wood desk. Matthew cautiously reached for it, picking it up as though it were a poisoned apple. He turned the gun over, by the handle there was a small golden engraving of a maple leaf, on the opposite side was the "Great Seal of the United States." An eagle surrounded by thirteen starts and holding thirteen arrows and olive branches was situated in the middle. But something was off, he squinted at the tiny carving and found the eagle facing the arrows. "Sir, something is wrong with this seal…"

"I know" The boss responded "I decided quiet awhile back that it would better fit this new era."

_An era of war, _Canada though. Sliding the gun from hand to hand nervously, looking almost as out of place against his parka as his brother participating in a Socratic seminar. "An era of war, brought on by me."

"No, an era of peace with the elimination of America," His Boss stated in a father-proud-of-his-son tone. "You will do fine Matthew. Make your country proud."

"Yes sir." Matthew Williams murmured picked up his bear, slid out of his chair and moved to leave the room. At the door frame he turn coldly "And sir."

"Yes Canada?"

"Just for later note, when you call me childish your doing the same to your citizens." He glowered at the head of state and angrily left the office.

***

Author's notes

-"'Mon dieu!'"- meaning basically "Oh God" in French. Why French? Because France originally owned Canada before the French and Indian War.

-"But something was off, he squinted at the tiny carving and found the eagle facing the arrows"- Originally before World War I the Great Seal of the United States the eagle was facing the arrows, symbolizing war. After the World Wars it was changed to facing the Olive Branches to symbolize peace.


	3. Death Dreams

Hot water cascaded down Matthew's arms. He closed his eyes and let out a long quiet sigh as though it contained every bit of stress and new found worry he had come in contact with that day. After leaving the office he had gone straight to his room and taken a shower. He didn't know how but the hot water relieved his stress and made troubles vanish, or at least temporarily. Right now he was the Canada from before he had entered the conference room. The shy young nation who still believed that his brother had good intentions. But his heart knew that as soon as the hot water stopped all the stress would return, that he couldn't hide from fate forever.

"Kumajirou, do you think I'm doing the right thing?" Matthew mumbled over the boiling water hitting the sides of the white tub. He waited for a reply from the bear, who was laying on some of the towels on the floor. Canada peaked out of the curtain, and saw that he companion was sound asleep on his parka, he smiled and then froze. The black gun rested like a sleeping demon on his parka, silent for now, almost harmless until someone pulled the trigger. That someone was going to be him.

His hands found the knob for the hot water and turned it up as high as the stainless stealing would turn. The scalding water splattered against his pale face and hair. If the fears couldn't be drowned out then they would be burned away under the water of the shower.

It didn't work. Under his closed eye lids fears and desires bounced around in his head. He could almost feel the cold black gun gripped between his hands, he could taste the satisfaction from having his brother gone. He could finally show the world who he really was. He could smell the blood in the air and feel the hot sticky red coat his hands. A smile of satisfaction crossed his face just thinking about it.

The young nation's knees smacked the porcelain bottom of the tub as he screamed. "What is wrong with me!" the words were barely audible in the frantic yell, covered up by the sounds of rushing water the scratchy shaking of his voice. "Since when have I been the villain, when did I become blood thirsty," tears rushed down his cheeks, blending in with the water from the shower. His hands trembled slightly as he turned off the hot water, watching it rush down the drain like blood.

Matthew rose to his feet and wrapped and warm towel around his body. As he left the shower his young companion was just waking up "Who are you?" it murmured in a softly sleepy tone.

"I'm Canada," He responded tightly, grabbing sweatshirt and a pair of pants before slamming the door, locking his bear, the gun, and every bit of fear inside of him behind it.

***

A heavy comforter was wrapped around Canada and the soft pillow under his head seemed to be the perfect place to escape the real world. It was too bad that it was harder to get to sleep that he had ever imagined. His mind was passed fear and now was on denial. But trying to deny that his brother wasn't going to be killed in the near future was close to impossible. Especially since the very gun that would finish the job was locked behind his bathroom door. He was going to kill America. His hands grip tightened on the linens. He forced his breathing to slow, his lids began to drop and then the world was black.

A white room stretched as far as the eye could see. Matthew stood in the center of the silent room. He took a step forward and it seemed like one could hear the movement from across the world, just that one noise seemed to last and eternity before he took another step and yet another. Only he existed in this barren white expanse.

And then there was another. Standing in front of the nation was a young man. His dirty blonde hair covered a pair of bifocals and bright blue eyes, his skin almost as white as Canada's own. The young man's torso sported a fading bomber jacket and an old military uniform from what seemed to be the late forties. He obnoxiously drank out of a soft drink cup, the sloshing of the ice inside echoed almost as loud as Canada's footsteps.

"America, is that you?" The nations whisper echoed at the volume of a mega phone in the white expanse. He took another step forward and America smiled, dropping the soft drink and lifted his hands above his head. The soda splattered on the pure white, the only thing other than the two men that tainted the pure room.

"America…what are you doing?" Matthew's voice shook. His hands were wrapped around a black gun with two golden seals on each side. One of a Maple leaf, the other of an Eagle. His arms extended and raised the gun to eye level. "No! Stop!" He cried and tried to fight his arms, but there was no way. His hands tightened and three shots echoed across the white expanse.

The other Nation's body fell unnaturally slow, almost as though puppet strings were holding it up. But when it did hit the floor the sound was ungodly. The explosions of bombs and unclear war blasted inside of the white room. But none of it was visible to Canada, who still held the gun, frozen in the position of Cain. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

Kumajirou walked across the white icy floor with a guise of disgust on his face. He stopped at his master's brother's body and looked up, making eye contact. "Who are you?" it barely whispered.

"I'm…" Matthew was about to answer but his throat took over "I'm America." He froze. The whole world seemed hear the Nations heart beating. He looked down at his outstretched arms, still holding the gun and screamed. Instead of his usual tan parka a bomber jacket with slight aging covered his arms, a pair of black gloved coating his hands.

"I'm America! I'm America! I'm America!" He cried dropping the gun on the white floor. Touching his face only to find a pair of bifocals and a single piece of hair flipped in the center of his head. The mirrored floor projected the image of America standing were Canada had once been.

"Yes. You are America," The bear responded quietly before fading into dust, blown away by an invisible wind.

The young nation lurched up in bed, his body covered in beads of sweat, his mouth screaming "I'm America!" over and over again. He could hear Kumajirou scratching softly against the bathroom door. He took a deep breath in. "I'm Canada" He said to no one. "I will never loose myself to that man."

Matthew rolled out of bed and pressed speed dial number one on the bed side phone. His boss picked up before the first ring had even finished.

"Canada. What are you doing, calling me now? It's almost three in the morning!"

"I know Sir." Canada's voice shook; he could barley hold the phone. "I was just wondering. When are we going to… you know…"

"Do the deed. Well yes, we could do it right now it you like." A little static intercepted the phone as his boss changed ears.

"Yes Sir. I would like that very much." Canada slammed the phone against the receiver.

He dressed in a white dress shirt and a pair of black slacks and slipped on his glasses. Matthew opened the bathroom door and retrieved the gun. Kumajirou looked up at him with eyes filled with pity. Canada locked the bathroom before the bear could follow, he didn't need to see his master commit this deed.

The Nation turned to leave the room, but before exiting through the door he turned to a painting of his brother nailed to the wall and pointed an empty gun at it.

"I am Canada. And you will never change that." He threatened before stepping into the silent hallway.


	4. Above the City

Canada stretched out on a couch, the dull roar of the plane's engine tempted him into the realm of sleep. He stayed awake, almost afraid of what he would find there. His boss could be heard typing on his laptop only a few meters away, probably making so final arrangements to make sure that the government plane was not reported to any American authorities.

Only a few more hours.

Matthews's hands tightened around the empty gun lying by his side, surprised he had even found it since his glasses were off, the feel of the cool black surface was now becoming more familiar every second he held it.

Only a few more hours until his rival, his brother, would lye dead for the world to see. It would be all his doing. All his pride. All his glory, for once his brother wouldn't be there to stop him for achieving his true desires. Peace would be created.

"Almost there, Canada," His boss said in a rather casual manner. The man placed his laptop to the side before rising out of his leather upholstered chair. "I have one last thing I would like to give to you."

"Yes sir," Matthew whispered softly, swinging himself out of the couch his bare feet thumping against the industrial style carpet. He quickly grabbed his glasses off of the side table and slipped them on his face. The world quickly came into focus. He could see that it was almost dawn on the east coast. Bright Corals and sunny Yellows licked the fading blue horizon covered by the icy Atlantic Ocean. The sight would have been truly inspiring if the atmosphere of the room hadn't been that of an assassination.

"Give me your gun," The boss sternly replied, his eyes filled with a deep icy darkness.

Canada placed the black and gold gun into the man's outstretched hands, surprised at how truly venerable he felt once the tool of mass destruction was out of his possession. He felt almost naked. The head of state quickly snatched it up as though it were his most prized possession and turned his back to the young nation.

What seemed like centuries must have been seconds that the boss had his back turned to Matthew. All he could see was that the man was fumbling with something in his pockets and switching compartments open and closed on the sides and back of the gun. Canada swayed; uneasiness flooded each joint in his body, thinking back the man's first day of service as the leader of his nation. The day the man had wanted him shot. Was this whole plot just a way to get a "defiance to god" out of the way for good?

His hands tightened. Matthew had never been a skilled fighter, not compared to his brother, but if this man was planning on shooting him then he had another thing coming. His boss turned slowly around to face a nation. His face a stolid, fixed to hide a smile that wasn't far beneath the surface.

"Here," The man said with a tone similar to a father's pride in his son, held out the gun towards Canada, handle facing the nation "is your gift."

Matthew took the handle of the gun; it seemed the same as before. But more deadly, something had been changed but the nation couldn't identify what.

"I've placed two bullets inside this gun." The boss responded to the nations puzzled expression. "One to kill your brother," Canada flinched "and the other in case you fail."

"In case I…" Matthew whispered. He had never considered that instead of his brother's demise he, Canada, would end up with a bullet to the head. _I won't fail_, the nation encouraged himself.

"Yes, in case you die. Now were almost over Washington D.C." His boss nonchalantly responded, signaling to the captain to begin the final decent.

They would be landing by one of the lesser known government buildings close to the White House, no one would notice. It was often that government helicopters and planes flew over the city with an unknown destination. Canada wondered how his boss had arranged this, but decided that some matters were best left unknown. He shivered, thinking about several back handed deals that had most defiantly occurred to allow this transaction. Even thinking about it made him a little sick.

The Nation peaked out of the tiny double pained air plane window, the Washington Monument was in sight, signifying that the plane was about to touch down.

***

The White House stood in front of Canada, its great white columns covered in shadows from the rising sun. Protecting it was a powerful black fence made of metal. The Nation grasped the fence and pulled himself up and over. For a normal person this feat would have seemed impossible, but then again when were the Nations normal?

He fell roughly on the other side, the green grass of the president's lawn still slick with the previous nights rain, Matthew did his best not to fall against the ground. He smoothly brushed off the clean white shirt he had worn, but the attempt to get the dirt of the clean crisp white proved to be imposable. Instead he continued onward to the West Wing.

He passed dark trees barely illuminated by the dawn; a rose garden that would have been normally in spectacular bloom was now covered by towels as a futile attempt to save the delicate flowers from early frosts. Canada knew that the residence's determination to resist the rose's demise was idiotic; the cold would kill them just like everything else. There was no use prolonging the inevitable.

Two Secret Service men were positioned at the nearest door, their eyes obviously tracking Matthew's every movement under blacked out sun glasses, their midnight suits causing them to blend in with the still present shadows in the garden.

"America, sir, I didn't know that you went out last night. I thought you were with Mr. Japan." One of the guards stiffly informed the nation, ending with an official solute. Canada couldn't help but smile, the one time it paid off to look like his brother.

"Ya sure! I just went out of get some sodas!" Canada raised his voice in an attempt to sound like his brother, he somewhat succeeded by reaching a normal voice's volume, but nothing as loud as the constant state of yelling his brother was in. The guards obviously didn't see any difference between this new meek America and the original. They moved apart to let the young Nation pass. "Oh!" Canada added as he went through the door into the West Wing "How many times have I told you guy's to call me Al?" The Secret Service men shifted uncomfortably, obviously the original America had told them many times.

The smile fell from Canada's face as soon as he entered the white hallway. He reached by his belt and pulled out the black gun. It felt heavy as though it were weighed down by the responsibility of the world. Matthew moved it slowly from hand to hand, passing rows of white doors and countless paintings of stern looking government officials. He didn't stop until he found the only room in the West Wing with lights blaring beneath the crack of the door.

The black gun slid smoothly back into its holder under the nations white shirt. His hands shook as he rose on up to knock. He bit his tongue to try and suppress the fear. _It's not too late, _Matthew thought, _I can always turn back now. Everything will be fine…_ He continued to lie to himself as his hand hit the door softly, barely making a sound. Everything would not be fine. In a matter of minutes he would commit an unthinkable sin. Once the mark of Cain had been placed on his soul it would be almost impossible to wash away.

He was glad that Kumajirou hadn't come. He didn't want his bear to have to carry the same burden that he would now have. He didn't want his only friend to realize how much darkness he had in his soul, if he even had a soul at all.

His hand fell on the door a final time when it burst open, bright yellow light flooded into the hall and the sound of a strange Japanese anime blasted into Canada's ears.

"Oh, Canada san," Japan murmured, his hands still against the door. America was yelling something in the background about how Western comics were superior to Manga. The Asian Nation moved out of the door way to let Matthew into the office, the TV flicked off.

Canada glared, he looked across the room, Alfred leaned against the wall laughing at a joke only he understood. Matthew smiled good riddance to the annoyance but what was he going to do about Japan?

"If you'll excuse me, I must be leaving." Kiku bowed his body tense. Japan had always been good at sensing a dangerous situation, he knew when it was smart to save yourself and leave others in the dust. "America san, Canada san." He murmured before leaving the room.

"Bye Japan!" America cried as the door chunked shut waving like a fool. Then all way silent except for Alfred slipping off is Bomber Jacket. His eyes grew dark "So brother."He stated in an inside voice, "Have you come to kill me?"

***

Author's Notes

- "The White House stood in front of Canada"- The White House is the name of the home of the president of the United States. It's located in the District of Columbia, which is between Maryland and Virginia.

-" he continued onward to the West Wing"- Were the Presidents working office is, contains the Oval Office.

-" rose garden that would have been normally in spectacular bloom was now covered by towels as a futile attempt to save the delicate flowers from early frosts"- Some people like to cover their flowers and more delicate plants with towels to attempt to keep them from dyeing in the cold. But as Canada states, it usually doesn't work.

-" Two Secret Service men"- Government protection whose job is to specifically protect the President.

-" Once the mark of Cain"- According to the Bible, Cain was the first murderer in the world who killed his own brother.

-"'Oh, Canada san'"- Japanese ending that basically means Mr. or Mrs.


	5. Thrust Home

"Of course not, Alfred, what would make you get that silly idea?" Matthew smiled, trying to appear calm as he worked out the plan in his head. What had gone wrong? How had this idiot found out? He heart beat at practically the speed of light and it took all his strength to keep his hands away from the black and gold weapon tucked safely beneath the white dress shirt.

"Don't lie to yourself Canada. Take out the gun," America's voice had a strange dark edge to it. A side of his brother that Matthew had never seen before, much to his dismay he followed his brother's orders and removed the gun, its black paint glinting in the florescent lights of the office.

"How did you know?" He whispered softly trying to keep the fear out of his voice. Trying to seem brave in the face of someone stronger, but it was almost like trying to be someone he was not and the fear slipped through.

"I didn't." The brother responded simply, throwing his bomber jacket on a nearby desk, sounding slightly amused. "You're not the first person to try and kill me, brother."

"What?"

"That's right. In the past years…" America paused as though to look for the right words in his limited vocabulary "let's just say that I've become a bit paranoid." A cynical smile crept across his face, when wearing it one could see his strong resemblance to England. "And went I leave this room I will have yet another enemy to add to the growing list."

Canada's hands clenched around the gun handle, taking aim at the other nation's white dress shirt.

"Two can play at that game, brother," The cynical smile widen as Alfred thrust a gun into the air. Canada froze. His brother hadn't used a gun a quite some time but it was still well known how well he could shoot.

"Mon dieu," He hissed under his breath, the gun wavered a bit in his hands, eyes left the target and moved towards the floor as though to hide his desperation from his brother. This was not how things had happened inside his head. Killing this Idiot should have been a cinch. But then again how long had it been since he had truthfully tried to talk to his brother, not long but it had been a pretty one sided conversation, maybe because at that point America couldn't even see a faint outline of his neighbor to the north.

"Oh and Canada," America continued "Once you're dead, the world will be a much safer place."

"What is that supposed to mean!" Canada yelled. Seconds later he found himself running across the room. Running to confront his brother who stood directly in his path wearing a cocky smile, Matthew felt anger and hatred flow threw his veins. Almost as potent as, maybe even more potent than that of when he first began this journey to kill the one thing that stood in his way. The one thing that prevented change for better or worse in the world, America.

"I'm going to kill you!" He yelled even louder, hitting the Nation in the chest, forcing his brother up against the wall. His hand wrapped around his brother's neck, hatred filled his purple eyes as blue ones of justice poured down on him. His arms tightened and his brother lifted a few inches off the ground. "I'm going to wipe that cocky smile right off this earth." _This is for the best… this is for… _He repeated over and over in his head, as though repetition would make homicide more just.

"Hum… how funny," America croaked, forcing the words through his blocked throat. His chest rose and fell slowly, almost painfully.

Canada felt his hands loosen around his prisoner's neck, _How can I kill him? Why? Why me? _, tears welled in his eyes. He wasn't going to allow his brother to see him crying.

"You are a fool, brother."

"Wha…what?" In the few seconds Canada doubted himself and loosed his hold on his neighbor America had managed to raise his gun, which was now pointed directly at Canada's face. The smell of old gun powder filled his nose.

"I'm almost offended," America sneered at his brother "even Russia could do better than this in the Cold War, and he was half crazy."

Canada felt his brothers cold, black, glove covered hands press against his chest. He slid back and fell. The sturdy office desk slammed into his back like a bag filled with bricks. Matthew's eyes closed, the world drifted in and out of focus as he lye, slouched like an abandoned child's toy, against the desk. _I am going to die here. _The Nation though, he could feel thick hot blood run down his pale white face. _I am going to die before I could even leave a mark on the world. _Tears ran down his face and mixed with the blood. He moaned. _How could I have failed so easily? I am a failure. I am…_ the words drifted out of his head as soon as they came, his hands still holding the Black and Gold gun pathetically in front of his body.

"Get up." A familiar voice rang out in the darkness.

He moaned, Canada tried to open his eyes but found that he would much rather stay in the darkness of his mind. In solitude. In peace. "Go away." He murmured, his words slurred like a drunk.

"No," The voice yelled loudly "Get up Matthew! Get up!" The voice was like a pressing force, each syllable distinctly pressing down harder and harder on Canada as though the very words were going the push him through the floor.

"I can't…." Canada whispered "I failed. I failed. I failed." Tears fan faster down his cheeks. America would kill him now, he had lost. He always lost. "Why am I weak?" He choked, tasting tears and blood in his mouth.

"You fool. Open your eyes."

As though it was the will of a higher being Canada's purple eyes softly opened. The world was a blur of pale yellows and reds. His brother stood before him, pointing the gun at his brother's chest. He moaned, and moved his hands desperately around the blood splattered rug in search of his glasses, the faster he could find his eyes the faster he could kill his brother.

"Wow, you are hopeless." America laughed, pacing around Canada's body but never moving the nose of the gun from the direction of his brother's chest. He knelt down and Canada felt his glasses metal frames slip onto his face.

He stared at his brother in shock as the blurry world came into focus, Canada wasn't the only one covered in blood. America's lips were colored dark red and his arms leaked red onto his thin dress shirt. A scratch on his forehead was caked in dried blood. _What happened to him while I was out? _ Canada wondered, pulling himself to his feet.

The two nations stood apart, their eyes dark, their cloths and hair stained with the red of each other's blood, their stances almost identical, thrusting guns before them, pointing towards their only obstacle. The breaths of the two nations seemed to fill the silent room, slow and gasping, almost competing to see who could take in more air the one breath. If one didn't know any better they would have thought that the same person stood on each side of the room, about to kill themselves.

"You know, brother, you remind me a lot of myself when I was younger," America smirked, flipping back a blood soaked Nantucket out of his eyes.

"I'll take that as an insult, if you don't mind," Canada glowered back at his brother, hoping that the sneer on his face would hide the fear in his heart. How could he kill a man that was obviously crazy? They weren't similar in any way other than appearance and Canada hoped to keep it like that.

"Oh go right ahead," The smirk on America's face grew "It's just that the roles are flipped." He coughed, fresh blood splattered on his white shirt. In the mere moments that had passed Canada's brother already looked severely worse of wear.

"You're mad," Canada sneered, his breathing heavy. They would have to finish this soon or else both of them would die simply from blood loss. _It's strange though, neither of us have done enough fighting to be this beat up. _ He looked down at his sleeves and saw that the pure white that had been so prevalent at the start of the war was now almost completely engulfed by sticky red blood.

"No, I'm not." Alfred replied forcefully, as though he had been trying to convince the world of this fact for most of his life, "I simply see things in a different perspective," He carefully adjusted Texas on the bridge on his nose, the lenses dotted with red, which was probably how Canada's glasses looked also, cracked and destroyed because of his flight and destination on the wooden desk.

"You," America continued, flicking the gun at Canada's face then returning the aim back on the nation's heart "are like me when I was young. When I was fighting for freedom from Arthur…"

"The America Revolution…" Canada whispered he had been fairly new to England's house when such events had occurred but he remembered his older brother not sleeping for nights on end in constant worry about his rebellious colony. That was when his hatred of America had started. America wasn't the hero; he only caused other nations pain in his rebellious arrogance. He only caused sleepless nights and neglect for quieter nations who knew when to keep their mouths shut when they were told to by their superiors.

"Yes, that nasty fist fight," for a second America wore an expression that Canada had seen England wear many times, that of a reminiscent old man thinking about lost years in the past. The gun wavered for a second from Canada's chest before America remembered where he was and once again the previous target was identified.

"Only this time, you're the strapping young rebellious hero and I'm the old man who is too stubborn and too caught up in my own image to kill you. But," He let out a sigh "Unlike my predicament, things are tainted with the supposable justice of red, white and blue."

"Quit stalling," Canada whispered through gritted teeth his fingers moved towards the trigger of the gun.

"Yes," America responded with is trade mark smile "I guess we better finish this. Thrust home, brother."

Both brothers simultaneously pressed their fingers to the trigger, but only one gunshot echoed in the halls of the West Wing.

The body fell faster than Canada had imagined in his dream. The body fell fast as that rest of the world seemed to slow. His smoking gun dropped from his limp hands. He moved forward, tears poured from his swollen eyes. The body's smack against the floor didn't create the sound of bombs cascading down for an early Armageddon, it was silent. All was silent except for Matthew's tears. He knelt over Alfred's dead body, hands surrounding the bloody hole in his brother's chest.

The blood just kept coming, as though the nation was still alive. "Alfred! What have I done?" his voice shook with angry tears "What have I done?" He screamed, his voice horse, his face so close to his brother's dead body that he could almost touch the bullet wound with his nose.

Blood kept coming. It washed over his white hands as though to baptize him into a new life. His body shook as he stared transfixed at the body of his fallen brother. His hands moved from the wound to the gun still grasped in the corpse's hands. He opened it, and found it empty. "You fool. You fool. You went up against me with nothing. You died with nothing." He voice broke and cracked "You fool."

Matthew stood; thick crimson gloves coated his hands. His face covered in shadows, in the last hour he seemed to have aged several years. He looked down at the bloody and burned body, but didn't give a second glance or ask a single question.

More tears cascading from his eyes. He grabbed the one item that wasn't drenched with the two brother's blood, a bomber jacket. The soft insulation covered his arms and almost seemed to promise to protect him from the evil of the world.

"Alfred F. Jones," Matthew whispered as he left the red stained office of the West Wing, "I will not let you down. I will become the Hero."

***Author's Notes***

"Mon dieu"- French for "Oh God"

"The America Revolution…"- The war were America gained his independence from Britain because of taxes resulting from the French and Indian War (also called the Seven Years War) and from Military occupation in Boston.

"Unlike my predicament, things are tainted with the supposable justice of red, white and blue."- Colors of the Untied States flag.

"I guess we better finish this. Thrust home, brother."- Thrust home, when I used it, is alluding to the play "Cyrano de Bergerac" in which the main character makes up a poem during a duel, ending each stanza with "thrust home." In the sentence it's being used similar to, aim at the heart.


	6. The Black Abyss

Matthew stumbled out of the door, as though all the former strength that his body had once possessed had leaked out like the blood on the floor. His hands smeared bright red blood against the pure white walls, his breathing the only thing that could be heard in the silent halls of the White House. Tears ran hot down his face, he was a fool. Everyone was a fool.

The nation covered his violet eyes with his arm; he didn't want to see any more of the capital's white buildings flying red, white, and blue. It reminded him too much of his brother. He ran from the Capital, without a second glance back at the red stained room, valor staining the last of the world's innocence.

Matthew ran in blind furry over the Rose garden, the brittle frozen stems of once blossoming red and white roses snapped into two pieces under his pounding feet. He didn't give a second glance. He didn't care if the weak were trampled; he just needed to leave this house.

No one opposed the nation as he jump over the black iron fence. Nor did they when he ran down the awakening streets of Washington D.C., the early awakening tourists waiting for a small glace at the U.S. mint stared at him as he bolted past. Several pointed and he could hear their whispers behind his back along the soft tone of ringing phones calling the police. His time in this city was up.

The plane awaited him just as he had left it, almost as though the death of his brother had never occurred. But the evidence lay right on his body in the form of a jacket and a half empty gun. He uneasily climbed the temporary stairs leading to the door of the inconspicuous government plane. He moved to knock on the oval door of the plane but upon impact the door smoothly swung open.

Everything inside was just as he left it. The carpet and walls were pristine, not a single bit of blood soiled them. It was peaceful and quiet and smelled of maple and vanilla instead of blood. Blood and death, those two scents still held strong in Canada's nose. The only things that had changed were the strong sunlight filtering in from the small oval cut windows and his boss.

His boss sat, legs crossed, in his usual chair on the plane, the one in the very center of the small tube. He looked up at Matthew and didn't attempt in the slightest to hide his long Cesar Cat smile. His dark black eyes met the nation's purple-blue with a cold pride. The only thing that had indeed changed for the worse on the plane was in his bosses hands. A knife, a knife covered in thick red blood was held in them. Blood coated the boss's blazer and fit like a glove on his hands.

"You did well, Canada," The head of state stated darkly, casting the bloody knife aside as though it were just a child's toy. He raised an eye brow and gave his nation a inquisitive glare "Were did you get…that." Spitting the last word as though it were a curse, he motioned towards Alfred's bomber jacket wrapped tightly around Canada's body.

"I don't think that is of interest, sir," Matthew glowered right back at his boss. "I, in fact, have my own list of questions for you."

"Oh really?" The boss responded, sounding almost as amused as when he realized that Canada only wished to return to the nation he had once been. He folded blood cover fingers on his lap and looked up at the nation with a slight sneer on his face. "What might those be?"

"Well, it's only one really," Matthew replied, he could feel embarrassment beginning to creep into his body. The same feeling that prevented him from being known to the world. The same feeling that he had whenever he had tried to tell America how much he truly hated him. _I'll never feel this again. _Canada silently promised to himself, _I will never again allow fear to run my life_. "Whose blood do you have on that blade?"

The Head of State's face fell as though he were disappointed in Canada's choice of question. "Oh, this?" He replied whimsically, lifting up the blood laden knife "It's nothing special, not nearly as monumental as the death you brought."

Matthews bloody hands clenched into deep red fists. "Quit stalling." He growled between tightly clenched teeth "and tell me who you killed!" His voice steadily grew louder and louder, as though America himself was fueling its volume. Canada had never spoken anything so loud in his life.

"Fine then, if you really must know," The boss responded as he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and began to clean the drying deep red blood off the blade. "While you were busy on your own murder, I snuck into the residence of the first family." He flicked a bit of blood off the blade, the drops landing on America's bomber, Canada flicked them off with deep discuss. "And I killed each of them. One by one." He looked up at his personified nation with a gaze of supreme pride, as though he believed such a deed would allow his nation to worship him like a divine power, flicking the blade with each death that he named.

Canada looked down at his boss, disgust laden over his face. But he didn't say anything; the nation simply took his usual seat near the back of the military plane. He would have been a hypocrite to say anything. Who was he, a nation who had just killed his own brother, fratricide, to criticize a man who killed a man that could rival his own governing might? A political assassination. Canada placed his head in his hands, shaking it slowly as the plane lifted from Washington D.C. Nations never did like politics but they always ended up being tangled up in the thick webs made by them.

The plane ride back to Ottawa was a blur for Canada. He spent most of the trip gazing out of the small plane's window, watching the sun slowly creep over the Atlantic. When his boss told him to change out of his blood soiled cloths he, in a foggy daze, obeyed. The past hours circulated over and over in his head like a broken movie's film. He saw his brother fall hundreds of times, but watching the scene over and over never changed that fact that his brother was dead. It never changed the fact that the first family was dead. It never could and would change the fact that he had committed a crime no other nation ever had.

***

Matthew stumbled into his pitch black bedroom like a drunk. Just like a plane, nothing had changed in his room. The picture of his brother that he had once pointed a gun at still hung by his door, the sheets were a crumpled mess on the floor. A product of the dream he had not so long ago, but that small time seemed to be an eternity.

Kumajirou scratched softly against the door making soft wining sounds that were all most like _"Who are you?" "Who are you?" _ being murmured repeatedly. Canada let out a soft sigh; his bear had been locked in that stupid bathroom since he had taken a shower hours ago. His hands rested firmly against the door knob and it turned beneath his palms.

The polar bear fell out of the humid bathroom and landed on the carpet of the nation's small living space making a disgruntled little snarl. He gave his master a short glare before freezing. Canada knew he smelled it, even as a human someone could probably smell the blood clinging to his skin and the stolen jacket.

"It's ok Kumajirou," He whispered, picking up the bear in his arms and stroked the small animals soft white head "everything will be ok." He continued as though it was more of a comfort to himself than to the disgruntled companion.

Matthew placed the bear down on his stripped bed, looking inside his jacket he found the black and gold gun, now half empty. He swallowed tightly, he never wanted to see that cursed demon gun again. Hands shaking he threw open a nearby closet door and tossed the gun inside. _I hope to never use that again. _He though, slamming the door shut a bit harder than necessary, his face white as a sheet of ice.

The Nation was about to continue onward to packing his bags, there was a United Nations meeting coming up and he needed to be ready, when he felt it. It was like a wrenching pain in his stomach, twisting a burning and growing by the second. Matthew let out a scream and fell to his knees; the hot tears that fell down his face seemed to be made of the very fire that was trapped inside his body. He let out another scream, this one many times louder than the last. And another, the tears and pain never seemed to end. He could feel his bear pressing against his side, making concerned noises in the back of his throat. Another scream, more fire spreading around his body. _This is my punishment _Matthew though, trying to surpass another painful cry by biting his tongue, he tasted blood flooding his mouth. _This is my sentence for my guilt. _He bent over and place his head in his hands, wishing only for the pain to come to an end.

Then all was black, and all was silent. The pain that filled his body vanished as soon as it came. Canada let out a deep sigh, it was finally relief. The world was as dark as when he had blanked out in the West Wing. Peace from the world at last.

"Do you think this is peace?" Canada froze. It was the same dark familiar voice as the last time he had blanked out. "If you do, then you're a fool."

"Who are you?" The nation cried out into the black, he felt like the fool the voice spoke of since he was obviously alone in this abyss.

The voice let out a cocky laugh "I'm yet another fool," it replied as though that was supposed to mean anything to the young nation.

Canada's breathe quickened, did the other nations know of his deed yet? Was this one of England's attempts to rid him from the earth? England did have the means of doing so, with rumors of his magical friends, and he certainly had always preferred Alfred over himself.

The familiar voice let out yet another barking laugh, as though he could read the Nation's mind. Canada froze and realized that every word that left his head echoed in the black wall less chamber. Every little phrase that his brain could think of was magnified and left bouncing off invisible walls for all to hear, there were no secrets in this black room. Then again there was nothing in this dark abyss.

"Who are you?" Matthew thought, the words echoing angrily across the black surface.

"I am you. I am your Hero."

"Who are you?" Another softer voice responded , the words made the dark world fuzzy and light. And then it didn't exist.

The Nation lay on his back, Kumajirou franticly stood on his chest calling out his usual phrase in despair as his master came to. Canada let out of moan, his body ached and it felt as though he had grown several inches in a matter of an hour.

"_I am your Hero." _ The words echoed over again in his brain like a broken track, playing over and over as though it were a voice that was meant to be heard. _"I am you." _

"Mon dieu!" He gasped bolting up right knocking the polar bear off his bused chest covered in cuts from the fight with his brother, his breathing heavy. The first genuine smile in several days lay on his lips "Kumajirou, I know whose voice is inside my head."

***Author's Notes***

"hide his long Cesar Cat smile."- Reference to the Cesar Cat from the children's story Alice in Wonderland. I the Disney movie he is characterized with a long pointy toothed smile.

"'I snuck into the residence of the first family.'"- The usage of First Family may be politely incorrect but it was the best thing I could think of. The First Lady is the wife of the President, hence the family of the President would be known as the First Family.

"'Mon dieu!'"- Once again meaning "Oh God", this is sadly one of the few French phrases I know. If anyone can speak French it would be much appreciated for you to suggest other phrases. Otherwise I will keep using Mon dieu.


	7. Hearing Voices

Arthur Kirkland rubbed his temples and bit his tongue, pulling out his pocket watch; he wouldn't want to say anything that could get him into trouble here. Not in this room, with almost every nation in the world slowly drifting in at their own hour glass pace. The meeting room was barley full now; most nations wouldn't even bother to show up for at least ten more minutes. The only ones that filled the room were himself, Japan, Russia, and Germany, but these were the nations that would be most critical of him if he did or dare say anything rash.

_Dang it _England hissed in his head _America where are you? _ The nation gave a worried glance around the meeting room; America was usually here before any other nation, his annoyingly loud laugh echoing around the serious offices and meeting halls. It was one of the few things his crazy little brother was timely about, the meetings of the United Nations. And England hoped that he would be timely, since it had been Alfred that had created the organization after World War II to help prevent anything of that destruction from ever occurring again. The meeting place of the UN was also located in one of America's busiest cities, yet another reason his brother should have been here already.

But seconds turned to minuets and they ticked by on Arthur's old pocket watch. _Bloody heck, what is keeping you Alfred! _England cursed in his head, flicking the watch closed and slipping it into his green and black military uniform.

More nations filed into the United Nations room and the noise level soon was elevated, much to Japan's obvious displeasure. England could see the Asian from across the table, he shifted uneasily in his seat glancing around at the much louder Nations laughing the telling jokes. Arthur had to smile, America was usually here to break the ice for his friend and make in feel less out of place at his seat in the UN. But America wasn't here yet.

The frustrated nation let out a deep sigh and felt is heart sink slightly as his not-so-favorite-person-in-the-world took his seat next to Arthur.

"Bonjour, Arthur," Francis smirked as he pulled out a bright red rose and placed it on England's desk area "what is with the angry face?" England was about to reply, but his older brother continued onward "Oh that's right, I forgot, you always look like that." He let out a soft, self worshiping laugh.

"Shut it, you wine freak," The cynical nation sneered at his brother. France proceeded to flip his hair and continually complain about England's language and cooking, England skillfully tuned it out. The only thought going through his mind was somewhere in the context of _Where is that American bastard. He'd better show up today. _ But that threats that he made in his head were now beginning to grow a bit thin, most of the nations were already seated at the table now. Was his little brother seriously not going to show this meeting?

"Oui and the English are so rude…" Francis continued with a deep tone of a melodrama infused in his voice, speaking for whoever would bother to listen.

Arthur slammed his hands on the table, than was enough, his brother needed to learn when to shut it, several heads turned but not many, everyone knew that this was a usual occurrence when the two nations were in the same room let alone seated next to each other. England opened his mouth to begin a loud argument with his older brother when he froze. In the back corner of the conference room one of the many dark wooden doors peaked open and let in a nation. A nation with yellow, blonde hair and a distinctive faded brown bomber jacket, England could feel his breath catch in his throat. _You're finally here America. _He could feel the chair slide out beneath his hand.

"See," France continued jokingly in a self worshiping tone, "England has finally lost his nerve. Not going to fight back, are you brother?"

Francis's insults slid over England's head, they and the laughing of several other countries, simply faded into the background as he began to walk. It was as though the world was on mute, a thing that Arthur dreamed would happen much more often. He moved around the long wood table, dodging rowdy nations chasing one another around the supposedly "peaceful" UN meeting room.

America did his best to keep unnoticed, as England soon realized, as the nation hid skillfully behind several pieces of old office equipment in the back of the room, an ability that England had never dreamed of his little brother possessing. _Why are you hiding, Alfred? Don't you want to steal my lime light as usual? _Arthur's thought as his bushy eye brows ruffled together to form a puzzled expression. It wasn't like his brother at all to behave like this, at the last UN meeting the younger nation had talked for over half of the time, making sure that each and every nation knew exactly what he thought of them and if he were to attack them, which some he probably would, exactly how he would go about it. Not the smartest idea when some of your enemies are seated in that very room.

Arthur's pale hands wrapped around the edge of a long unused vintage black board at the end of the table and slid the rolling board out of his way. His little brother stood behind it, facing the other direction as though he were examining something hidden inside his jacket. It was definitely his brother, he could even see the black glasses tips of Alfred bifocals tucked tightly behind the nation's ears.

"Hey Alfred," England said nonchalantly placed his hand on his brother shoulder and spun the slightly taller nation around "You've got some nerve, coming to your own organization's meeting late." The last few words were draw out as the nation felt something press against his chest. England, for the first time in the brief period, looked up at the nations face and expected to see Alfred only to find another one of his younger brothers. "Matthew…" Arthur didn't and couldn't continue as a small hand gun pressed against his chest.

"I'm not America." Matthew leaned over and hissed at his older brother. "I'm Canada." England desperately looked his little brother in the eye, expecting the soft warmth that he had always been able to find, but only found ice and freeze twisted with utter madness.

"You're mad," Arthur murmured strait back to his younger sibling. He could easily escape from Matthew's gun trap but he was almost afraid of what the northern nation would then do at the council meeting. _Where is that America bastard when you need him? _England shouted in his head. America could have easily understood his brother, or he would have completely ignored the fact that he had a fellow nation to the north.

"Your right," Canada hissed back at the older nation "I am mad."

***

The phone kept ringing, its metallic twang had been echoing around the cluttered bedroom for several minutes. Matthew moaned, brushing the bear off of him. A wave of exhaustion swept over the nation as he moved for the phone, how long had it been since he had last had a peaceful sleep? A day? Two? Even the revelation of finding out who was haunting his nightmares didn't give him enough energy to want to function in society. The ever persistent phone continued to ring, the nations hands groggily lifting it from the receiver.

"Oui?" Canada murmured trying to sound as awake as he could; it was an obvious failure as that sleepiness clung heavily to his voice.

"Canada, where are you?" The Head of State practically screamed into the nation's ear, he could hear a plane's engine in the back ground.

_Who is he going to make me kill this time? _Matthew thought dryly. "In the bed, well on the floor, sleeping sir… I wasn't aware that I was supposed to be anywhere else." He murmured into the phone's mouth piece, not even attempting to hide the obvious displeasure of his boss interrupting one of his most important thoughts.

"_Yes you were." _A voice interjected, Canada's hand gripped the phones black handle and waited for his boss to respond to the voices comment, secretly hoping that it had been on the other side of the phone.

"I'm fairly sure that you were Canada," The boss continued with a rustling as he changed ears "remember, the United Nations meeting in New York today?" his voice was cold and mocking, also as though to infer that his own nation was slightly on the dull side for forgetting a very important meeting of almost every nation in the world.

Matthew felt his hand grip the phone a bit tighter and his words caught in his throat, so the voice wasn't in the plane. The voice was now residing in his head, outside of his nightmares. _I am going completely crazy, _He thought, almost expecting the voice to respond Why yes, you are, but all was silent in the nations head accept for his own thoughts and muse. "I'll be right out sir. Just let me get dressed." He replied the dial tone beeped at the end of his sentence. Of course his boss had hung up on him.

The nation let out a soft moan and forced himself off the floor. The world spun like a child's marry-go-round and he had to steady himself by grabbing his night stand. _"Come on, we don't have time to waste!" _ The voice blasted in his head. What an impatient voice.

Matthew let out a soft sigh; he had to deal with this before going to the United Nations. He couldn't be listening to a voice inside his own mind while his brothers decided major world issues. Especially since they didn't know about America's death, yet another problem the Nation didn't particularly want to think about.

"Look," He said staring at the ceiling, attempting to talk to the voice. "I know your there, America." It was quiet. The outside world and the nation's head was the acme of silence. _And now I just made a complete fool of myself. I must be going completely crazy. _He added in his head, careful not to say that out loud too, even though only Kumajirou was in the room, sleeping on a sheet.

Canada moved shakily over to his closet and choose one of his many white collared shirts, one not covered in blood, and a pair of dark gray pants. He wanted to look nice for the United Nation's meeting; maybe it would make things a bit mellower or make him blend into the conference room even more than he usually did. He hoped, that would be the ultimate proof that his life had returned to normal.

"_Are you trying to look like a prat?" _The voice smirked in Canada's head _"Or do you just want to kiss up to Arthur, maybe he won't kick your ass to bad for killing me if you look nice and neat." _

"Shut up." Canada sneered to the empty room. "Shut up you fool." He slipped on the white shirt, only to find the sleeves several inches too short. It was a similar ordeal with the pants, though not as bad. The nation searched his closet for a set of larger cloths while his annoying brother snickered like a poltergeist in his mind. It was a failure. Soon the only item left in his whole closet that had a possibility to fit his now longer arms and torso was the faded brown bomber lying at the bottom of the closet beside a black and gold gun. He swallowed tightly and picket up the crinkled vintage leather, sliding it on over his too small dress shirt. It was a perfect fit. _Great _he moaned in his head _so much for blending in. I must have grown last night, during the dream. _ It had been years since Canada had grown, nations didn't grow like normal humans. They only increased in size when their country became larger but as far as Matthew knew his nation was the same size then as it had been several years earlier.

"_Yes, it is great," _Alfred's voice laugh in his head _"You deserve to suffer for what you have done." _

"What do you mean what I have done?" The nation whispered under his breath as he gathered papers for the UN meeting and Kumajirou in his awkward arms. "Why don't you just leave me alone?" He snapped under his breath, closing the door to his room and entering the hall. His boss was probably going to shoot him for being this late. Canada's hands shot for the gun, of course it was in the jacket, he flinched. What did he even bring a weapon; UN meetings were in a effort to make peace? But his gut, and America, told him that he would need it.

There was a long period of silence between outside the Nation's room and to the government plane. It was almost as though Matthew's last comment had finally shut his brother up. Kumajirou murmured a few comments that the nation could barely hear as they were about to enter the plane, which was odd since before the assassination the nation could always hear his bear speak, no matter how loud the words were uttered, but he brushed it off blaming the lack of understanding on being sleep deprived, which he was.

His boss stated some comment about being severely late for the meeting but Canada tuned him out. He needed to find a way to make sure that his brother wasn't in his head any longer, his words repeating themselves in his head _"You deserve to suffer for what you have done" _and the nation couldn't agree more, as long as he could return back to normal like his boss had promised he would serve his penance and more. Which should be occurring soon, since the threat to the southern nation was gone life could be restored to the way it had once been. The world could go back to ignoring him and he could be pleasant to the world again instead of killing. Everything would be in balance.

Matthew forced his mind to drift as the plane, thank god it wasn't the one from several hours earlier his boss had called for a newer plane since the traditional one was now stained in blood, zipped across the American-Canadian border. He peered down expecting to see bustling traffic moving for his brother's side of the lightly guarded border but instead saw no one. Not a soul was on the free way or in the border patrol booth. It was not a sight that the young nation had never imagined, nor could he imagine why such an event was occurring. It was as the plane lowered in for its final decent at the LaGuardia air port when his heart was filled with horror. On the edges of New York City rubble and broken glass lay on the charred ground. "What happened?" he whispered.

"_You happened. This all your fault." _ America, who had been silent until now, spat. He obviously had had quite a bit of trouble staying silent for such a long period of time.

And America hadn't been the only one to hear to comment, "Oh that?" The head of state responded, "Just a few of the repercussions of killing a major nation." He left it at that, Matthew was about to inquire further when the planes wheals touched down on the tarmac.

"_Ah," _His brother remarked snidely _"It's good to be home." _

***

Canada found himself running down the dark halls of the United Nations building, the meeting had already began to assemble. It was so quiet he could almost hear each one of Kumajirou soft murmurings echo in the passages. Running like this reminded him of several occasions he had been late to meetings, when things were different, before his brother had taken residence in his very unstable mind.

America was absolutely thrilled as they ran down the halls, he babbled something about his great plans that he had prepared for this meeting in particular, Matthew tuned him out. He didn't particularly want to know what his dead brother was going to go at the meeting. He was more concerned about even getting in and blending in to the collaboration.

It took several wrong turns and a few knocks on several wrong doors until that nation and his bear found the dark wooden set of doors to the particular room he was looking for. The nation took a sharp breath to calm his nerves and hastily let himself in. Matthew peaked into the room, almost everyone else had assembled except himself and America, and America obviously wouldn't be coming.

"_Idiot, quit looking like a suicide bomber. I swear you're pathetic at sneaking." _ America yelled in his head.

"It's not like you were much better," Canada hissed making his way past old junk and ancient computer parts "you always announce your presence." The nation turned his back to an old chalk board, it was the perfect shield to hide him from all the other nations.

"_Well at least I have an excuse." _

"What might that be?" He murmured in response, he had a feeling he knew the answer, Matthew placed Kumajirou carefully on the floor and let his friend explore the random junk in the back of the UN room.

"_I'm the Hero." _

"Could've guessed," Canada laughed to himself, absent mindedly pulling out his gun, twiddling with a few of its parts while thinking in disgust _I just had a conversation with myself. _He was so oblivious the nation didn't even hear the chalk board slide smoothly out of the way.

"Hey Alfred," England said nonchalantly placed his hand on his brother shoulder and spun the slightly taller nation around "You've got some nerve, coming to your own organization's meeting late." The last few words were draw out as Canada thrust out his gun "Matthew…" The older nation didn't continue, either from fear or shock.

"I'm not America." Matthew leaned over and hissed at his older brother. "I'm Canada." His heart beat at the speed of light. How dare he, how dare he confuse him and his brother. How dare he even consider them the same person. In the past day Canada's soul had grown cold and this new icy soul would never again be his brother. He would not be a replacement.

"_Please don't shoot Iggy." _Alfred's words pressed on Canada's skull. It was more of a demand than a request.

"You're mad," Arthur spat at the young nation.

"Your right," Canada hissed back at his elder brother "I am mad."

***Author's Notes***

"The lightly guarded border but instead saw no one"- The Canada- United States border is the largest unguarded border in the world.

"Final decent at the LaGuardia air port"- An air port in New York City (New York City is a major city in the United States on the East Coast).

Sorry for the late update, school started again so I will try and update once a week or once every two weeks on Fridays.


	8. I Already Have

"Then I guess you wouldn't mind if I happened to move this then?" England sneered his hand wrapping tightly around the old rolling black board that shielded the two nations from the eyes of the rest of the United Nations.

"Please don't," Canada whispered his face paling as he withdrew the gun from his older brother's chest. He couldn't let the other nations see him; he wasn't ready to explain what had happened. He didn't know how he would even begin to fathom telling them about the voice in his head or the fact that one of the current world leaders wasn't currently attending the meeting, nor would he ever attend another.

"Fine, then you put that bloody gun down."

Matthew obeyed, smoothly placing the black and gold gun back into the inside pocket of the bomber. _Why did my brother even need this? _He thought but he didn't ask, he had a feeling it went back the Alfred's cold war days filled with paranoia and accusations. Matthew didn't particularly enjoy talking to his brother during the later part of the twentieth century, all he had ever discussed was ridding the world of Communism and a new way he was going to attack Ivan. Maybe that was when all the anger that the young nation felt towards his brother had began, but Matthew had a feeling that his grudge had begun centuries earlier.

"_I knew you wouldn't shoot him." _Alfred smiled, he seemed almost mockingly happy, as though to suggest that his bother didn't have the guts to kill another person. Matthew had to disagree; England would in fact probably be dead if his better conscience, or Alfred, wasn't whispering persistently in the back of his sleep deprived head. _"He's your brother as much as he is mine. It just wouldn't be right."_

"It's not like kinship has stopped a bullet before," Matthew hissed while pulling his hand out of America's bomber placing his arms neatly to his sides, quickly silencing himself, remembering that he was the only one in the world that could hear his brothers voice, to each and every other person Canada just looked like a loon murmuring nothings. Luckily his brother didn't seem to notice. The young nation, after all, had just given up the upper hand; now that they were negotiating England would always get his way. That was the way his brother had always worked, though back hand deals and manipulation.

England poorly hid a concerned look, so he had heard the younger nation whispering nonsense to himself. "Now, before I move this out of the way you sure as hell better tell me what is wrong with you, and were the heck your bastard of a brother is," Arthur spat, his mouth becoming progressingly more like a sailor's as he threatened and negotiated.

Matthew shifted uncomfortably, it wasn't that he minded making up a spur of the moment lie to convince his older brother that he wasn't crazy, it was the second question. The second question seemed to define his life now, where is your brother? Didn't anyone care where he was? Or was he just Canada, just a quiet little nation to the north. Just a nobody.

"_It's because of my charming disposition," _Alfred beamed sarcastically, Matthew still wasn't sure of how, even though they were probably going to get killed by England, his brother was still annoyingly hyper. Annoyingly American.

Canada's hands clenched into fists as he carefully opened his mouth to explain, England's harsh green eyes piercing his soul, he diverted his eyes away. It would be too painful to stare his older brother in the face, he did his best to give out an aura of cool and calm while he could barely hold back frustrated tears. "I…I…" He whispered softly, almost as soft as his voice had been only a few days previously.

The Nations soft voice was over ruled by loud cries of shock and horror. From behind the old chalk board that two nations could hear the exchange unfold. A door slammed against the wall and hurried footsteps echoed around the silent room, one of the only times the room had ever been silent. The footsteps grew louder, it sounded like running. Canada carefully picked put his bear from the junk and forgotten eighties computers.

"_Is this a terrorist attack?" _ Alfred murmured, obviously trying to mask distress, ever since 911 Canada swore that was all that the nation thought about, as though something within himself had broken on the day that a plane crashed into New York City. Matthew didn't respond to his brother, partly because he didn't want to admit that the exact same thoughts were racing through his head. England looked strangely pale, Matthew couldn't even imagine what this situation was forcing the older nation to remember. The room remained quiet until on horse voice broke the silence.

"America is dead."

England pushed the black board back and then froze as though he were working out a confusing math equation; the rest of the conference room began to buzz. All eyes turned to the two now standing at the head of the table, at the opposite end was the man who had revealed Canada's deepest fear. He looked normal, almost too normal; he was obviously part of the secret service. Blood covered his suit jacket, Canada's throat felt like a vacuum void of all air. The world knew, it wouldn't be long now before they put two and two together to make four. The young nation quickly began to move, he needed to get out of here.

"Stay here, you bloody murderer." England glowered, the quiet words seeming to echo around the silent room, his arm shot forward, wrapping a ghostly white hand around his younger nation's pale neck. "You…" Arthur's green eyes filled with icy tears looked up to meet his younger brother's soft purple-blue, his body gone ridged and cold but his arms shook with uncontrollable fear and rage as his scream echoed around the United Nations meeting room "you bastard. You murdered Alfred F. Jones."

***

The bitter wind bit at Canada's dress shirt. It was dead cold outside, nearly freezing, and the sky looked as though it were going drop a bomb, dark brooding, unknown. But still the nations were persistent; the funeral would be today, even if the world were to end.

They all were assembled, covered in black with solemn masks to match the equally dreary weather, at Arlington Cemetery. Canada could see the uniform white graves of fallen soldiers in the distance, he shivered and hugged his bear even tighter, they had died protecting their country and now it was all to waist. Their country was dead, to be buried today along with his fallen men. Canada knew that he should have been crying, but it seemed as though all of his tears were dried and gone.

Even his brother was silent, he would be privileged enough to attended his own funeral, if it truly was the murdered nation and not a simple delusion cause by Canada's obvious stress and lack of sleep and if seeing yourself, dead and to be buried in the tomb to the unknown soldier, was really any sort of privilege at all or simply a curse.

The Nations huddled around the casket; it lay before the white tomb that would be its final resting place. The top of the casket was swung open for anyone who wished to pay last respects to their fallen friend to do so. An unorderly line of nations waited for a turn in front, each slowly moved forward to look at Alfred's body, many of their eyes filled in unexplainable disbelief or uncontrollable tears that fell silently down freezing skin.

England stayed the longest, staring down at the young nation that he had practically raised. Murmuring nothings into the open casket, the only words that Canada caught in the fringed wind were "I hope you forgave me." Arthur turned away from the wooden coffin, his eyes purposely skipping over his younger brother. They made eye contact briefly resulting in England quickly flinching away, his hands clenching into pale white fists. Canada reached for his own neck, feeling the deep red marks that had been created only a few hours previously, they seemed to burn at his touch as the thought of them flowed back, the pain that had only occurred not long previously seemed to be released.

England's hands had wrapped tightly around his neck, as though he also wished to join Canada with bearing the mark of Cain. The older nation's heart seemed to have died as he slowly stole his brother's breath from his very throat.

"_Please don't kill him Iggy. He doesn't..." _ America grew silent, as though Canada's own lack of air stifled the brother's voice, if he even existed.

"_Maybe in death I will finally be sane. Be free." _ The idea seemed to bring relief to the young nation. If he had died, then at this second, Canada believed, it would have been much preferred to his future in store. His brother's hands tightening around his throat, as though his older brother had saved every bit of power he had ever possessed for this moment. To use it in case someone dare try and hurt his favorite little brother, Alfred. Alfred had always been the favorite, when ever England boasted about his young colonies America was always at the top of his list. Even though the colony complained constantly and often rebelled Canada could never match him. The favoritism was obvious, that may have been when the grudge began to dwell in the young nation's heart, the one thing that pushed him over the edge and caused him to commit the greatest act of evil.

"_Don't count on it." _ America's gasping breath barely whispered in the corner of Matthew's air deprived mind. Just a few more minutes and this hell of a life would end. It would be better for the world if the villain with a hero masquerade was gone.

"Англия let the boy go." A sweetly maniacal voice joined the only other noise in the room, which was the young nation's desperate gasps for precious air which were now grown less and less frequent. Neither Canada or America recognized the sickly sweet voice, it was as though someone had decided to make the mistake of dipping poison in powdered sugar, it wasn't right, it wasn't sane, the voice did not belong in this world nor should it.

"Why Russia," England sneered, Canada's vision turned from clear to a world seen though a stream of water, fuzzy and unreal. He felt the hands tight still around his neck and even felt his feet leave the wooden floor by several inches. "Why shouldn't I murder this bloody traitor?" England was serious, Canada could hear it in his voice. His older brother wouldn't even hesitate to kill his adopted child. And eye for an eye, a death for a death, Matthew knew the logic, it made sense which meant that he would be dead. England always got his way when it came to negotiations.

"Because, Comrade, America wouldn't have wanted things to unfold in such a way," The Russian monochromatically pointed out, as though he filtered each word that left his lips so that it would seem as an endearment.

The hand loosened around the young nation's throat, "What the bloody hell do you mean by that?" England spat at the taller nation, not letting the Russian's superior size daunt him.

"Innocent until proven guilty, comrade."

Canada fell to the ground, land on his back, sending his polar bear flying off somewhere in the junk pile that manifested in the back of the room, his throat letting out loud obnoxious gasps searching for air. It flooded into his lungs like a wave of sudden relief, the world came back into focus and each inch of his neck burned as though a lighter had burned it.

"_So, that communist did learn a thing or two," _Alfred commented, Canada had to restrain himself not to remark, not that he could have anyway since his lungs were still devoid of air, America had a tendency to forget that he wasn't in any sort of war with Russia, cold or warm, and that their north western neighbor was no longer communist.

"Fine," England growled smugly as the world came in to icy clear view, the green eyed nation towered over Canada's crumpled figure, "I, Arthur Kirkland, demand that arrest of Matthew Williams, also known as Canada. He shall go to trial three days from now at ten in the morning under the laws and orders of the Nation known as the United States of America. His crime being murder," the nation spat the last word, "may the lord have mercy on your soul."

Another gust of icy air blasted into the Nation's side, forcing him out of the past and into the present. He remembered where he was, at his brother's funeral, waited apprehensively for his turn to look at his brother's dead body, what a privilege. His hand slowly moved down from his red marked neck back down around his bear, who whispered something that the nation could barely hear. That was happening more frequently in the past few hours, little things that used to make up his life, the defining characteristics that once made in Canada were fading into the background like how he once did before America's assassination.

A crying Sealand was quickly ushered away from the casket, the young micro nation holding England's stiff white hand. Both America and himself had held that hand many times. _Be careful, _Matthew wanted to say to the young micro nation, _he may be your brother right now, but he won't always be with you. He may become an enemy some day. _ The little boy avoided Matthew's piercing stare, and followed his older brother's lead. Tears flowed freely from the older nation's eyes, coated his cheeks and turned his face a bright pinkish tinge, he looked weak. Almost as weak as the moment that the older nation realized that he no longer controlled a large portion of the earth, that he no longer could justly be called The British Empire, Canada knew that such occasion and here today were the only two times England cried. Canada found his own tears slowly trickle down his face. Not in sadness for a lost brother but in pity for the ones that his brother had left behind. For all the pain that he was now causing the world, the young nation had never imagined such severe consequences for his actions when his actions usually went largely unnoticed.

Spain stood in front of the young nation; he slowly walked up to the casket, his hands barely touching the dull wood, shaking but most likely not from the cold but from fear of the unknown. No one knew what happened to a nation after death. No priest or any type of religious minister was at the funeral, it would have been what America wanted, or at least it was what the one in Matthew's head wished for one of his founding ideals was freedom of religion for all.

The Spaniard leaned over Alfred's body, placing a clean pair of Texas on the nations face. "Lo siento, mi hermano." His voice shook as the soft Spanish words floated out of his mouth as he left the fallen nations side, trying to hold back tears. Trying to look unfrazzled by the ordeal, the new set of bifocals seemed to gleam even though the sun was hidden his rays failing to break though the impenetrable gray ceiling.

The northern nation moved toward the coffin without a sound. He was aware of the sets of eyes following each step; they all knew that he had murdered the nation. They were all against him. His only ally from this day on was himself. _No one is with me, my will is only mine. _He thought sullenly as this free hand touched the side of the coffin. Not a tear fell from his purple-blue eyes, _they have all frozen along with my heart. _

This brother's body lay, almost as though he were sleeping, upon a bed of roses. Canada had to admit that the nation looked more at peace in death than he ever did in life. The bloody scrapes and burses were covered by a thick foundation, Matthew glanced at his own hand, the scars from their fight were beginning to heal but his body was still filled with an unimaginable pain. America was free of that pain now. The only sign that America had even been injured as a deep red-brown burn that stretch across his ghostly white neck onto the left side of his face, it didn't belong and something stirred in Matthew, something told him that he should know the blame for who and what had cause the two nations to become to bloody and bruised. What had caused his brother's burns?

Kumajirou uttered another silent phrase, the soft and gentle word deaf to Canada's ears. He stared down at his brother, silent and resting in a bed of red and white roses, the colors of blood and innocence. Matthew would have to leave soon, other nations needed to see the fallen hero. The northern nation pulled a pale blue flower out of his dress shirt pocket and placed it beside one of the nation's hands. "I hope you forgave me," Matthew murmured echoing his elder brother's words.

"_You fool," _Alfred murmured, _"I already have," _ his voice was laden to solemn sadness as they walked away from the casket never looking back as the eyes of the world watched each move the pair made.

***Author's Notes***

"_Is this a terrorist attack?" _ - Referring to September 11th 2001, where terrorists flew two planes into the Twin Towers, a plane also hit the Pentagon and a small field.

"dreary weather, at Arlington Cemetery"- the national cemetery of the United States, located in Virginia (I think), it was created after the Civil War and has since been used to burry soldiers.

"buried in the tomb to the unknown soldier"- Tomb in Arlington Cemetery for all the soldiers who died in battle but were never identified.

'"Англия let the boy go."'- Supposedly meaning "England" in Russian, please correct me if I'm wrong.

"any sort of war with Russia, cold or warm,"- Referring to the Cold War between Russia and the United States in the twentieth Century.

"clean pair of Texas on the nations face"- Americas glasses represent the state of Texas. Spain at one point owned Texas, which was then transferred to Mexico when it got its independence and then to the United States. Since there is no Mexico character I felt that Spain would be the most fitting for this role.

'"Lo siento, mi hermano."'- Meaning "I'm sorry, my brother" in Spanish.

Oh also, by the way, I like reviews.


	9. Open Wounds

Matthew could feel himself sinking further down in his seat. The first official day of the meeting of the United Nations was under way and at full blast. Nations yelled and debated across the wooden table, slamming their fists into the hard wood, causing everyone's beverages and documental papers to go flying. Their anger expressed at tenfold, America always had been one of the greatest participants in this. And he would, or course, always win because he was simply the hero. Canada kept his mouth shut, silently observing the meeting, attempting to prevent his eyes from closing.

The previous night he could have slept, and he did in his whole heart attempt to, but sleep avoided him. It was as though even though he had cast fear and worry about killing America in his mind his heart still felt the pain, the guilt. Still felt the evil that had been committed. The scene of his brother's body falling to the floor, of the bloody stains coving his body, replayed like a broken tape in his mind. Over and over the conversation that they shared before two guns went off was reenacted like a movie script in his head.

His thoughts, even sitting at the United Nations table were fixated on his brother. The burns, the dark reddish brown splotches that stretched around the deceased nation's body were unexplainable. His mind turned the image around and flipped it but no matter what perspective Matthew saw it in they were unexplainable.

"Canada, what are your views on the matter?" An impatient Germany sporadically called out, although it was probably part of some larger plan the European nation had fuming in his mind. Germany never dared to take on an endeavor without a well thought out, complex plan. Matthew was startled awake, even though he had not been aware that his eye lids were tightly shut. He had fallen asleep again, this was probably the third time during the meeting, each time Germany or Japan porously awakening him just as it seemed like his was going to stumble on the answer to his questions.

"_You idiot," _Alfred imposed in the drowsy nations mind _"They're trying to catch you off guard; they know that you're weak." _

"Then why don't you tell me the answer to my questions? Save both of us some worrying." Canada murmured not caring if the German could hear him talking to thin air from across the table.

"_You know that I can't do that."_

"Why not?" Matthew gave a frustrated hiss back, several nations began to look across the table at him, sending one another inquisitive looks but none of them dared to say a word. It was quite obvious that Canada had indeed lost his mind.

"_Because I don't know the answers."_

"What? Is that your answer?" Germany responded, he stared a confused expression with several over nations that could hear the young Canadian whisper phrases to himself.

"I believe," Canada looked up in shock, he saw a concerned looking England shuffle some paper around, carefully choosing his words as though he contained an impossibly large dictionary in his mind "that our young colleague means to say that he doesn't understand what is being asked of him." Several bursts of laughter erupted around the meeting room; whatever they had been discussing it was obviously something that was very prominent. Maybe Matthew had even suggested the idea at their last meeting, he genuinely had no clue. That was what he got for going a few days without any substantial sleep. The Englishman placed his now neat stack of papers down on his desk and gave a deep look of concern on his older brother face.

"My god," Matthew murmured, he barely thought to himself these days, every thought was spoken in a soft undertone, it was the only way, he had quickly found out, that his brother could hear him, "he thinks I'm a loon."

"_Aren't you?" _ Alfred gave a smug reply.

Canada simply shook his head, trying to ignore England's deep inquisitive staring. "Why can't that brit just leave me be." He said, probably not quiet enough for Arthur's staring became deeper, as though the nation were trying to see into his mind, and maybe he could. Matthew had heard rumors about England being mad enough to think that faeries were normal in a person's existence, he might even be crazier then Russia.

The young nation's eyes were closing when he heard America call out in a tone that was light hearted yet somehow contained a bit of sternness _"Because, we are all brothers." _

_The world was an icy gray, thick clouds of smoke covered the flat ground. Everything was quiet as though the world had pressed the mute button, then the screams began. Heavy shrieks, old and young yelling in a strange foreign tongue that the Nation couldn't understand, he couldn't see a thing, he didn't even know where he was let alone who was behind the black smoke. He began to run, he had to save them, it was in his nature. He couldn't let the screaming continue but no matter how fast he fled the shrieks reached his ears, the screaming of men dying, he had heard such screams before. The sounds that made his heart fell as though it were made of ice as though it were to break into insignificant shards. He clamped his gloved hands over his ears but the screams didn't leave, they almost intensified. The nation fell to his knees; he could feel people around him, their bodies lying on the cement. They would never scream again. _"What can I do? What have I done?" _He screamed into his hands, thick tears running down his face, smoke infecting his eyes and nose. He couldn't breathe. _

"Youth…" _A cracked voice struggled to stammer next the weeping nation _"I just don't understand them."

"Japan!" _the young man cried out, reaching over to touch the weeping nation, to comfort the older man, but when he looked down all that he could do is scream and push the dyeing man away. Push the man covered in thick red cuts and unsightly burns out of his sight. This was all his fault. What had he done? _

"Canada? Canada, are you ok?" A voice cried out. The young nation's eyes flew open as soon as his body was violently shaken, as though the awakener believed that if the young nation wasn't completely conscious that moment the he would die.

"Ya, I'm fine," But he knew that he wasn't as he looked up at his awakener, England, his voice shook with fear. Tears ran down his face, what had he just seen? "Just a nightmare." He murmured groggily pushing himself off the desk on which his head had been resting, he felt horrible, even more so then before he had fallen asleep, before he had had that strange nightmare.

"I hope so, we're on break right now so you can do whatever you wish," England replied, he didn't sound convinced, "Are you sure you're ok, you look bloody awful."

"_Tell him that you're bloody fine." _ America responded quickly, almost too quickly, as though he were trying to hide something.

"I'm not going to tell him that," Matthew whispered back, pushing back his chair and sliding out. His knees giving way under himself so that he was a crumpled figure by the floor, "I just need a bit of rest. If you could just leave me alone while I slept… what was that anyway?" There was nothing but silence on the other end. America didn't respond, it was almost as though the hallucination was pouting in the back of his brother's mind. "Don't say you don't know. I know you do." There was still silence, like a child sulking after their parents wouldn't let them have a new toy, nothing but static, tiny black ants marching across an expanse of white screen. "What did you do to Japan, America? What did you do to your best friend?" This time he wasn't quiet, this time Canada yelled, his voice echoing around the empty meeting room. A voice that was louder than even America's when he was feeling especially talkative, it was his voice now. That loud, demanding voice was now possessed by the once quiet and docile nation, he had power and he wasn't afraid to use some of it to force the answers out of his brother. He was a different nation than he had once been, he no longer cared whether it was polite or docile or whether it offended anyone. He had discovered greed, one of the key traits of an empire. He was now an empire.

There was another silence followed by Alfred's voice shaking, shaking full of fear, fear of his brother or fear of what he was to say, and shame. _"Have you ever heard of Hiroshima…?"_

"Good god, so that was…" Matthew was much quieter now. He knew that his brother had hurt Japan at the end of the Second World War, everyone knew that. It was common knowledge that the United States of America was the only nation in the world that had ever used an Atomic Bomb, but Canada had never fathomed that that had been its effect on Japan.

"_It was all my fault. It was all my…" _ Alfred didn't seem to be listening, sobbing, it seemed as though that particular moment captured all his shame. That moment embodied each black mark on his soul, combined with events such as the Japanese Internment and several drafts, that area of his mind was forever scarred in black and dyed with blood.

Pain erupted from Matthews skull, it began with America's screaming a quickly grew into something much worse. Canada held his head in his hands as he ran blindly to the bathroom. His head ached. Not just a simple head ache, but a burning sensation, as though his mind were going to explode. "This is a product of my insanity. A tribute to my crimes," He whispered to himself as he ran. Sets of eyes followed him down the hall. He could almost hear England's worried footsteps behind him. What was wrong with the man anyway, just a day earlier he had tried to kill him and now he was following him around like a nanny. What a mad man.

In the back of his mind America was screaming, not just a simple yell but an ear splitting scream filled with a atom bomb worth of pain. It felt as though both of their minds were being ripped to pieces, almost like how the young nation had felt right as he indentified the speaker in his mind. Fire, flame that couldn't be displaced or relinquished filled the pair's body, a pain that was immortal and never ending. It felt as though they were entering hell.

The bathroom door flew open and Canada ran to the sink, hot tears pouring down his pale face. His hands clenched the cool porcelain sides of the closest public bathroom sink. His hands madly dashed for the handles, turning the icy water on as high as it could go. The sink didn't seem to fill fast enough, both of their screams bounced eerily around the bathroom, even though if anyone were to enter only one deadly yell would be heard. His white knuckles could feel the porcelain crack underneath his fists; he was stronger than he was only a few days ago. Stronger than he had ever dreamed of becoming, it was part of the curse that he beard for killing his brother. Along with the pain, the pain that now existed ever since his brother's death. More screaming, more tears, it seemed as though the torture would never stop.

Matthew frantically splashed water on his feverish face. "Oh god, Mon dieu," His screaming words barely understandable, mixed in with the sounds of gurgling water in the drain and his frantic breaths. "I'm going to die, I'm going to die." His throat was on fire. All the cuts and bruises that cover his arms and legs suddenly burst into flame, blood, thick red blood, rushed from the scaring cuts on his arms and legs. He could feel the blood entering the sink mixing with the clean, pure water. Contaminating all that was left to be pure in this world. The blood seeped though the clean dress shirt, it over his hair and his body, dying the floor with thick red colors. That was now the color of the world. Red, the color of pain and of suffering. He sobbed into the sink, Alfred crying with him, each sharing their pain with the other through the strange bond that they shared.

Then it was over. The aches and pains vanished as quickly as they had come. The only trace of any strange occurrence in the bathroom was the blood that was now spiraling down the drain and the heavily breathing nation. Matthews's tears filled the sink, in breathing heavy and slow, as he looked up into the mirror, and the screaming continued almost as quickly as it had stopped.

Staring back into the young nation's purple-blue eyes was another blue eyed nation. Both of their faces covered in thick red blood, one of them burned, the other burdened with consequences. The two identical nations screamed at each other, America at Canada, and Matthew at Alfred. "Get out of my head! Get out!" Canada frantically cried, his hands leaving the sink side. His fists smashing into the thin glass, ruining the perfect image of his brother moments before his death. Shards of crystalline glass fell like gentle white rose petals around the nation. "Why can't you just leave me be? You're dead! Why can't I just forget about you?" Canada fell to the tile bathroom floor; his knees hitting the hard surface quickly became covered in blood. His hands covered his pale face, his brother's screams echoing in his head. He needed to help, had to save them, it was in his nature. He couldn't let the screaming continue but no matter how fast he fled the shrieks reached his ears, the screaming of men dying, he had hear such screams before. The sounds that made his heart fell as though it were made of ice as though it were to break into insignificant shards. He clamped his hands over his ears but the screams didn't leave, they almost intensified. The nation fell to his knees; he could feel nations around him, their bodies lying on the cement. They would never scream again_. _"What can I do? What have I done?" He screamed into his hands, thick tears running down his face, he couldn't breathe.

"I have…" A cracked voice struggled to stammer from the shards of glass surrounding Matthew "I have… to survive."

"Alfred!" the young man cried out, foolishly looking around for him in the bathroom, to comfort the brother, but when he looked down and found him in the shards of glass, all that he could do was scream and push the pieces away. Push the pieces covered in thick red cuts and scrapes out of his sight, like the true coward he was, he could never deal with his problems, just push them on to the next person. This was all his fault. What had he done?

"Please calm yourself Canada san, you must retain your dignity."

The young nation glanced up, and the many bloody and burned Americas vanished along with his pain. Gone as fast as it all had occurred, just a familiarly painful memory now, "Yes, I guess you are right Mr. Japan." He whispered, trying to hold back another screaming sob.

"_Damn it, that fool must have seen that whole thing," _America swore, his voice shaken with fear. He obviously hadn't particularly enjoyed the ordeal, Canada wondered if it had been the same America in the millions of mirrors as the one in his head, or was he justifiably now completely mad.

Canada ignored the American's comments, him and Japan were best friends, he was obviously afraid and didn't mean a word that he said. After all he was probably just as crazy, if not crazier, than himself.

"Mr. Japan," The Northern nation continued, pushing himself with much difficulty off the slippery wet titles and into a sloppy, but respectful bow to the Asian, the bloody shirt that clung to his body making it especially hard to move "may I ask you a question?" His voice shook but the young nation attempted to keep his face calm a blank, to show as little weakness as possible. Even though that Asian probably fully understood exactly how insane Matthew truly was.

"Oh course Canada san," Kiku replied his voice questioning. The Japanese man backed himself up against the wall and stared tensely at the Canadian, his face pale and his jaw clenched. He had obviously read the tension of the situation and realized that if he didn't oblige to the young nation's wishes that he would be forced to. No one wished to mess with an insane empire if they were wise.

"What did you…" Matthew searched for the right words as he striated his shirt out and analyzed the cuts on his arms, they were all reopened again. What a strange occurrence, was it simply a panic attack or something more? "Look like after America dropped an Atomic Bomb on you."

Kiku's face paled and his eyes because foggy brown fearful spheres, obviously lost in some long ago memory that he had purposely pushed to the back of his mind. "I was burned." Sadness and pain clouded the Asian nation's voice, then he quickly straitened himself, almost realizing how much weakness he had just shown and stammered "Now it you will excuse me, Canada sama," The Japanese man quickly dashed out of the room.

Matthew paled as the man left. He brushed a bit of blood off his forehead and laughed. A bit of fearful laughter echoed around the room, as though laughing would make his fear vanish into oblivion. "America, I think I finally understand."He let out yet another undignified cry, not caring who heard him as soft sound of the squeaky door hinges chimed out, "It's all my fault. It's all your fault for inventing those stupid bombs. It's my fault for being a puppet. It's my boss's fault that you're burned. It was he who launched the bombs." His shoulders and back shaking like when a child cry's, the northern nation's mind worked out the problem like a chemistry equation being sure that all his components balanced as footsteps echoed and splashed with the blood on the floor overlaying with the sound of his stressed laughter and sobs filled with self pity. "You were burned from your own creation. You were burned by a bombing in New York." He let out yet another hysterical cry. "Dead god, I am mad. I am mad." He sobbed into his hands, America's loud insane laughter filled with pity and fear, fear for the fact that he had created his very own demise, echoed in Canada's confused mind.

"Matthew Williams." A solemn English voice echoed over the madness that saturated the room "I think that it's best if you came with me."

"Yes, I would have to agree," Canada responded, though the words seemed more to belong to his better conscious than himself as the Englishman led the Canadian out of the red stained bathroom.

***Authors Notes***

'"Oh god, Mon dieu,"'- "Oh God" in French, even though you all probably know that by now.

'"_Have you ever heard of Hiroshima…?"' _– An atomic bomb that the United States dropped on the town of Hiroshima in Japan to end World War II.

'"Oh course Canada san,"' '"excuse me, Canada sama,"'- san in Japanese is a term of respect like Mr. or Mrs., it's basically an all purpose honorific. While sama is a level higher than san and is a honorific that shows even greater respect.

Sorry about the weird chapter everyone, I promise it won't be so strange next chapter. Please review.


	10. Kicking Down the Door

A soft moan escaped from Matthew's lips as he rolled over on the soft coach. His head ached and his body felt as though it were about to fall apart, he let out another soft moan. It felt as though the young nation had faced off against an eighteen wheeler and actually won, his lungs felt as though they couldn't grab enough air, his muscles refused to move without giving deep groans of maiming pain. He kept his eyes closed, sealed tight not allowing any of the room's light into his mind, as though by being blind to the world he could forget what had occurred sometime earlier, not that he remembered much of it.

England had led him out of the red painted bathroom into the hall, his mind spinning, pumping with an insane form of adrenalin, America's screams so loud and so violent it almost seemed that they would break out of his blonde blood matted head like an escaped convict and preach it's anarchy for all the world. He held his wavy blonde locked head between his red dyed hands, following England's brisk sharp footfalls that seemed to echo around the silent hall.

Not that on one was present in the passage; eyes off all sorts watched the two as they headed for the solemn oak doors at the end of the hall, even though Matthew himself couldn't see the onlookers he knew they were there, watching the trio as though they were in a twisted chess match of sorts, no one dared to interfere. For all they knew, and for all he was aware of as well, once Canada exited those doors England would skillfully dispose of him, it wasn't like his older brother had never killed a man before, in fact his conscience had probably died when his empire had been born a few centuries previously. His heart more stained in red than even Matthew's, the terrible things he had seen one could probably never imagine nor would ever wish to.

A soft murmuring uproared with each passing steep, as though their steps created a ripple effect on the wooden floor, he could hear curses and hushed cries of distress and even tears running down people's faces. He knew what they were saying. He knew what they were thinking. "There goes the murdering bastard. Let's put him in his rightful place." He would prove them wrong, that was not his fate, that was not who he was. Matthew clenched his bloody fist angrily ready to turn around and scream along with his brother whose intense insanity created an insane uproar in his head. He spun around on his heals slick with his own thick red blood, his face covered in dark shadows when the world began to fade, black hovering around the fridges of his vision and then nothing, his tense body becoming a lip rag doll waving softly before plummeting to the hard ground with a painfully vibrant clap.

The real world, if that is what one would call it, flickered in and out of existence. Everything was black. Then a brief panel of light, strong arms holding his lip body, carrying him to places unknown like a small child, Matthew may have felt embarrassed by such an act but then the blackness swallowed his mind whole one again.

He was being placed into the back seat of a cab, doors slamming shut, the bustle of New Yorkers could be heard in the not so distant background. Someone spoke in a roughly threatening voice. _They're going to kill me; _he though with a bit of cynical bliss that had not existed only a few hours previously, a death wish which he made as the black engulfed his exhausted mind once again.

The wait was longer this time. The next chance the young nation regained consciousness from his blackened haze he was laying on a soft upholstered couch with his face to the sky, not daring to open his purple blue eyes in fear of what he might find. In fear of the world, in fear of yet another death.

Matthew hesitantly lifted sleep from his soft colored eyes; almost afraid of what he would find facing him. Light streamed into the nation's face, overwhelming his senses with pure white brightness that made his face twist into a grimacing cringe which soon subsided to leave him to observe his, actually quiet dark, surroundings. Classic furniture from some early twentieth century era surrounded the room, giving it a rather drab, expressionless, appeal as though no one in particular had lived in the residence for some time, it trading ownership every few days. The room was cast in shadows, sun barely peaking through from dark colored thick curtains, which looked slightly out of place, most people in the area preferred slatted blinds over flamboyant looking floor length gothic colored curtains. It was definitely what some would call high end quality.

A soft flannel blanket covered the nation's body, and extended to most of the antique couch, its soft fibers rubbing against his pale bare skin reminding him a winter nights simply sleeping in his room back in Canada. He frowned reminiscently at the memories, their innocence not bringing him the joy that he would have desired; they seemed to belong to a whole other being than the person lying on the dark couch in the encroaching room. He let out a tense sigh, rubbing his sweaty face with large pale hands, trying to stifle a moan. _Were the heck am I? _He asked himself worriedly, there were a great number of people who wouldn't mind the nation dead right now, was he in one of their many residences, waiting to be killed. Maybe that was why he had felt so horrible, they had drugged him, the drugs not working only because of his greater strength that hadn't existed a few days previously, but he doubted it. Such pain wouldn't be caused by poison.

His thoughts interrupted by a soft whimper, Canada removed his hands from his face and glanced down the coach at a small white figure standing boldly out from the dark drab of the room, the first smile that he had felt in days rose from his mouth. Sickly sweet, as though his body no longer knew how to truly be happy he let out a small laugh that seemed to hauntingly echo around the room, its own sound causing the nation himself to feel shivers scamper up and down his spine. Like poisoned powdered sugar.

The smile remained on his face but the joy didn't stay long, _what happened to me back there? Why does it seem like the world is completely different? _ He screamed to himself, clenching his teeth behind an emotionlessly sweet smile that refused to fall from his face as he reached innocently forward to pet the fluffy white bear. "Hey buddy," he whispered softly bringing the bear into his unclothed arms, pressing the satin soft white fuzz against his own pale scared chest, thin precise cuts etched into the cold looking body, inerasable imperfections, they would never fade, they would never go away, their pain only increasing throughout time the pressure of the innocent bear providing no relief from the endless pain. "What if life never goes back to the way it once was?" Matthew murmured, burying is sweat covered face into the cool fur, it catching the cool tears that cascaded from his eyes just like it had many times before, when he had been weaker, when small problems had brought him into crippling tears. "What if I am stuck as a villain?" His back shook as more silent tears rippled across his body, their decent powered by cowardice and fear.

The bear responded in some murmured dialect, the once comforting whisperers of his closest friend could no longer be heard by the young nation. The words were simply an undertone, background static for the man's silent tears.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," He pleaded softly gripping the bear's arms so that it let out a loud cry, loud enough for the nation to grimace "why do I keep hurting everyone?" Matthew murmured gripping the sort white fur tighter despite the bears soft protest, they feel upon deaf ears. "Why can't I save anything? Is this world only full of hate?" He sobbed into the bear's fur, the soft fibers irritating his soaking wet face, his body shaking like a child.

"Canada?" a cold voice dominated behind him as the door latched open allowing the strong scents of ground coffee and tea to diffuse into the dark room, bright light pouring in that forced the nation to turn away from the figure "I believe it's time I received some answers."

***

The English man pushed his hair back out of his eyes as he hesitantly stared at the bathroom door. He had followed his screaming little brother to this point, but somehow he had quickly fallen behind the insane nation's blind sprint. He knew for a fact that the young nation was inside, he could hear the screams. Chilling sounds that almost echoed those that his southern brother had uttered during his civil war, as England stood to the side and watched his brother bleed on the ground. _Mustn't get involved _he had told himself over and over, Arthur wouldn't allow that excuse again, he knew the pain that it had caused his favorite little brother, and it was all his fault.

"Damn, I'm such a pansy," he cursed to himself as his hands hovered over the bathroom doors handle. He couldn't bring himself to open the door and see the horrors and evils that lay behind it. He had a feeling that the screams would cover the walls in red. Arthur's shaking hands reached for the handle when the door burst open, slapping the English man painfully in the face and he staggered backwards against the hallway's solemn colored walls.

"England sama!" the voice cried out filled with a strange fear that didn't seem to fit it's owners normally composed posture "you have to stop him," he breathed before the Asian collapsed onto the Englishman's shoulder, placing foreign blood on his clean black suit.

"What?" England cried out, trying to hide the obvious alarm in his voice "Mr. Japan, what happened?" but the Asian man didn't respond, simply murmured about burns. Burns, and blood, and bombs as tears ran from his foggy eyes across his face paled in fear, his body shaking. England had never imagined seeing the man who was normally the calmest of all nations in a nervous tearful breakdown. "Damn it," he cursed under his breath "Damn it, what have you done brother." His hands angrily tensing into fists and laughter of his mad brother echoed in his ears causing each more pain in his heart. It almost sounded like America at his lowest point. America at the height of the Cold War waged inside of his head, insanity ate the soul.

England slid the Japanese man off his now bloody shoulder; afraid to ask where the blood had initially come from, telling the Japanese man that everything was going to be fine. His hands grasped the mental handle and fearlessly turned, not caring for what he many find on the other side of its realm.

It was worse than the man, whose soul was coated in darkness and corruption, had ever imagined. The smell of blood was the first thing that hit him, thick and metallic, like a wave from an atom bomb, it coated the once white tile walls turning them a light pink, all of it rushing for a small metal grid drain in the center. White bits of sink were shattered around the bath, as though someone had went at a sink repeatedly with a sledge hammer. Shattered shards of mirror cover in fresh blood were scattered about, as though a person in deep agony had tried to remove his own reflection from the world. In the center a figure painted red stood screaming to nothing, his words horse and impossible to understand in their madness as they flew around the bathroom. Arthur was all too familiar with this, madness and anarchy, all seemed to pollute his life, but that didn't stop his voice from shaking as he carefully called out to his brother "Matthew Williams. I think that it's best if you came with me."

"Yes, I would have to agree," the young man responded in a sickly sweet voice that caused icy chills to flee up the normally quiet composed man's spine, he understood why Japan had come out in the state in which he had, his little brother was indeed insane. Canada's face was covered in shadows of anarchy as his head snapped towards the sound of his older brother's voice, as though he hadn't heard the man enter. Madness could make a man blind.

The young man surprisingly followed his older brother without a fight, as though his insane screaming had worn out his thoughts to rebel. He held his head in his hands as the two's feet made soft splashing noises when hitting the blood coated bathroom fool. England pushed open the Bathroom door without hesitation, he had the perfect place to take the boy but to get there they needed to leave now.

_Why the hell am I helping him anyway _he thought to himself as he glance back at his younger brother, whose hands were tightly clenching his face, blood rolling down his cheeks like a warrior's tears _Why do I even bother? _ There was no answer, as there should be.

Arthur confidently stole down the hall; two sets of dress shoes tapping sternly on the wooden floors, eyes were watching them, following their every move. They had heard all of it; they all knew that the young mad had done something to Japan, coated in blood which appeared to be his own, clutching his face as though he were afraid of the light. Each nation lined the hall, peering over but not interfering with the duo's decent to the door at the end of the hall _they think I'm going to kill him, _England though amusingly to himself _why don't I? _ He grinned softly under the shadows of his face; the insanity from past history had never quiet left him, which was what an empire did to you.

A cracking sound vibrantly rose from behind the Englishman. He spun around; tightening his fists like an animal looking to see whom had hurt his future kill. No one was there but staring eyes and a body lying motionlessly on the wooden flood. "Bloody hell," the Brit spat as he kneeled down in shock to observe the damage, the boy had simply fainted, probably from exhaustion if the older nation had to make a guess. He scooped the boy up in his arms, feeling his muscles tensing under the extreme weight, Canada had gotten heavier since England had owned the child centuries earlier when he was a simple colony. _Wouldn't life be great if things had stayed like that forever _Arthur thought bitterly as he made his way to the door, Canada stirring in his arms like a sleeping child, but the affect wasn't as it had once been possibly because his younger brother was covered in his own blood.

The door flew open as England's foot met with the smooth surface, forcing it to fly outward, barely staying on its hinges. Bright light and the street scape noise of New York City flew at his face causing him to look away, outside seemed a million times more vibrant than any of the decorated halls of the United Nations buildings. The Englishman carefully made his way down the avenues of the Big Apple until he found his limo waiting in an exclusive parking space, it wasn't his limo per say, himself and the prime minister of the United Kingdom and Northern Ireland shared it on their stay in the United States for the meeting of the United Nations.

The limo driver delicately opened the back door of the long black car and allowed the nation to slide his unconscious brother's bloody body in the back set of leather bench seat, no questions asked.

"You sure as hell have caused me more problems than I would like today, you twat," England murmured rather roughly his green eyes inspecting his brothers body before closing the car door and climbing into his own seat near the front of the car quickly giving the driver a set to detailed directions.

The car's engine let out a soft roar before the driver skillfully navigated into New York traffic, yellow cabs honking as they cut them off mid lane change, no reason to feel bad of course, just normal activity in one of the largest cities in the United States. The sights of pedestrians of all types zoomed by in the stop and go traffic, annoyingly speratic traffic jams that plagued the city like a relentless infestation. The limo came to yet another stop behind a rather damaged looking yellow cab, England drummed his fingers on the window, glancing back at the unconscious almost dead looking body laying motionlessly in the back seat. _Why the hell am I doing this? _He though sullenly while pulling a rather drab looking cell phone out of his ruined suits pocket, violently pounding the number keys.

"Bonjour mon amour" a rather flamboyant voice laughed at the end of the dial tone, obviously putting on some sort of act as England grimaced at the nickname that man on the other end of the phone had taken to call him in the past few decades, it was one that England did not particularly enjoy.

"France, it's England" Arthur murmured into the phone trying to hid that fact that he was still slightly shaken by the string of events that seemed to be unfolding, this were strange enough in this life as it was, even for England who regularly saw magical beings things were too weird. The fact that his quiet little brother who always had hated war and violence, killing one of the most powerful nations in the world was enough to make his pale skin crawl.

"Oui?" the Frenchman responded into the phone, obviously a bit amused that his younger brother was calling him for an obvious favor "What is it that you want mon amour?" Francis replied not attempting to hide his laughter into the phone, nothing got under England's skin more than needing his older brother's help to get to his goal, even if it meant being called "my love" during the remainder of the conversation.

"I need you to get some tea ready."

"Oui," Francis responded in a surprisingly serious tone, as though he understood the situation that his younger brother had been placed in, the phone rusted as the man obviously moved towards of stove, switching ears in the process "I heard what happened at the meeting today, is he really…"

The man's words were cut off as the Englishman violently pressed the red end call button, the Frenchman's flamboyant accent disintegrating into static. He didn't want to talk about the United Nations meeting to any one, especially his older brother. He would never be able to understand the conflictions in England's head.

In the back seat the young nation stirred and then settled back into a deep slumber, England let out a sigh of relief, he was almost afraid to face the young blonde. How could he possibly explain to him why he was helping him if he himself couldn't figure out the exact reason? Was it pity? Was it fear? Or was he secretly planning something inside of his head, some sort of revenge plot that he himself didn't even know about? The man let out a sigh and rubbed his temples in a failed attempt to hold back some of his stress, biting his tongue to prevent from expelling anxiety caused screams. It was such a burden to be the older brother of so many countries.

The limo came to a smooth halt in front of one of the many older hotels in New York, the driver politely opening the slick black doors for the Englishman to step out. The cool November air bit at his body with a vengeance, it was unusually icy in New England this year and it would only get colder, the early frost had killed most of the plant life and now snow looked as though it were on the horizon giving the already metropolitan city a dead look, as though the world were only made of icy metal and slick sidewalks covered in clear ice, a silent predator waiting for someone to tread upon it, laughing silently at the fool that slips.

_I guess I'm like the ice, _He thought sullenly as the driver opened the back doors of the limo were Canada's unconscious body lay looking rather dead, thick red blood had finally began to dry on the body leaving dark maroon stains on the leather, England hoped that he wouldn't have to pay for a replacement. _I wait and watch, only acting when it's best for me. Laughing at everyone else as they fall at my feet, _his mind drifted as his hands grabbed Matthew's bloody ankles, yanking the body out of the car and back into his arms, holding him as though he was simply a small colony. Several bell hop's gave them glancing stares as they passed, Arthur knew how it probably looked, gang violence or even the mafia, the hotel staff would have to be bribed later, wouldn't want any of this escaping out of local authorities. _This is what it means to be a fallen Empire. What a curse. _He spat to himself as he entered the elevator, Canada's legs hitting the sides, his past colony had definitely grown since he had owned him.

The lights on the elevator dinged as the rose each story, one by one the glowing lights changed from one digit to the next until they reached the last floor, the 13th, the top floor of the old hotel. The doors opened to reveal a rather modern setting compared to the rest of the hotel, which was decorated in a rather early twentieth century décor, pre great depression era while in contrast the thirteenth floor was covered in post world war era furniture, the colors were brighter and cleaner and it was obvious that the hotel staff took special care of the unlucky floor, it being the most expensive to rent out per night compared to the rest of the upscale hotel.

England carried is little brother though the sliding doors and into the lighted area, seriously hoping that his former colony's blood didn't ruin any of the furnishings, he didn't want to replace any more decorations. His footsteps seemed to echo around the silent hall, Matthew's feet dragging against the old fashioned wood paneling, his head just centimeters away from pounding the opposite side of the narrow passage. "Damn it Matthew," Arthur hissed, clumsily rummaging for his hotel key in his suit pocket, finding it and with much difficulty slid it into the narrow metal slot, the door giving a satisfying click before swinging open.

The scent of tea and coffee swirled around the nation was he slowly entered the small greeting area, out of habit brushing his shoes off on a small rug by the door, dried blood falling off of their waffle like soles like small bit of maroon dirt collecting in the rough brown rug. Carefully navigating about the small space he made his way to an enclosed living area of a sort, it wasn't particularly his style. A couch was positioned in the center with fairly classic furniture stationed around it as though to stand guard. Dark drab curtains in a gothic sort of style framed large arched windows which were currently drawn not to allow any sort of light particle inside of the classically drab chamber; it was certainly more of Ivan's personal style than England's. Though it was strange that Francis had closed the curtains, he must have heard the gossip of the United Nations from some other poor fellow whom he had probably threatened to black mail.

The Englishman carefully laid the Canadian on the soft coach and examined the wounds that covered his body. The shirt would have to be taken off he decided and possibly the pants, both stained a thick red color clung to the young man's pale skin like a dehydrated man clings to a canteen of water. Arthur pulled a small Swiss Army knife out of his dress shirt pocket and pulled one of its many tiny knifes out of the shinny smooth plastic base, placing the knife against the red dress shirt making a long strait cut off the front. _Hell _He though softly to himself as he sliced the shirt away _its pathetic when you think to carry a knife around "just in case", I really am a paranoid old man just like Al… _he shook the thought away, deciding that thinking about his little brother's death, a knife in hand, standing in front of the unconscious murderer was never a good math equation, instead he proceeded to remove the shirt and throw it to the corner of the room.

The older nation wanted to gasp in horror at what he found across the young man's bare skin, but restrained himself; he could hear his French neighbor clambering about in the adjoining kitchen. Coating the Canadian's body were small scars, each only three or four centimeters long, making deep cross hatching marks on the pale white skin. Bits of red still oozed from some while others were surrounded by deep yellow colored bruises in the process of turning a shade of twisted pale black. None of these, however, were the thing that made the Englishman's stomach churn. Each cut was clean, strait, and deep, as though to be made with a small sharp blade, as though the former colony had done it to himself. "Bloody hell," He hissed before leaving the Canadian to sleep on the sofa, covering him with a blanket, a strange white mass that looked oddly like a bear leaping up upon the unconscious nation's chest, England didn't give a second glance recognizing the bear from Canada's days as a colony although the Englishman couldn't place the animal's name.

The sound of an opening door interrupted England's train of thought as a flamboyantly exaggerated voice called out "Mon amour, your tea is ready!"

England shook his blonde head at the annoyingly persistent nickname, if everyone listened to the Frenchman soon all the United Nations would be referring to the Englishman as "My love", and strolled away from the unconscious bloody Canadian and into the kitchen. The flood of natural light caused England to squint at first, in contrast to the dingy living room the kitchen was fairly modern with large floor the ceiling windows that allowed the bright late afternoon light to blaze into the rather large hotel room at full force making the lemon yellow painted walls even brighter than they were previously.

"How bad is he?" Francis murmured after the Englishman had settled into a chair around a small wooden table, sipping a bit of rather fragrant tea, the Frenchman's flamboyant act was suddenly hidden behind a seriously stern face. That was why England had allowed the rather annoying man to be fully updated on the details of current events; Francis had raised Matthew along with England. Francis had been Canada's first older brother.

"Bloody horrible," Arthur muttered into his tea before taking another drink, the scalding tea burning down his throat, not that he cared, he actually enjoyed the pain in a strange twisted way. "When I found him he was covered in blood, screaming to nothing." The man gripped the handle of the porcelain tea cup, careful not to shatter it under his tight stressed induced death lock "Then he just…fainted."

"It sounds a lot like…" The Frenchman murmured in the thick accent, taking a sip of his own cup of tea thoughtfully.

"The American Civil War, I know" Arthur replied returning the cup on the light colored wooden table, placing his hands on his temples and closing his vibrant green eyes "that was I thought at first too, but it just doesn't add up. His body is covered in knife cuts, as though he tried to kill himself."

"So we're dealing with something completely new?" Francis replied skeptically, placing his own cup of tea down looking the other nation strait in the face, which was something the older man never did often and continued with hesitation in his voice "you know, we only have one person to call then," His voice shaking at the thought.

"Oh bloody hell no," The English nation moaned into his hands in a rather pathetic tone "Isn't there some other alternative other than that bloody bastard?" The skeptical look that Francis responded with was enough of an answer, no there was no other way, no matter how England wished there could be. They would have to call _him. _ "Well there's no way I'm talking to that man." He continued darkly, taking a furious sip of his now rather cold tea.

With a rather dramatic eye roll the Frenchman slid his own chair under the table and moved towards the vintage telephone, flipping though in search of numbers in a rather faded a battered address book that lay on the counter top, obviously finding what he was searching for the nation began in spin the numbers into the phone slowly and placed the corded ear and mouth piece between his flamboyantly manicured hair and the perfectly pressed blue shoulder of his shirt. His hands tapping against the hard countertops as he waited for the end of a never ending dial tone.

Filled with apprehension Arthur slid out of his chair, pushing it under the table as quietly as possible. He would not want to disturb this phone call; if he did it was very unlikely that _he _would give them a second chance to convince the strange man to help the young Canadian. The Englishman made his way past Francis to a small coffee pot on the opposite side of the narrow lemon color kitchen, his hands shaking as he poured the scalding hot liquid into a plain white coffee mug, one could still hear the dial tone ringing rather drearily from across the long narrow room.

"Bonjour monsieur," Arthur heard the Frenchman murmur into the mouthpiece of the phone in a rather endearing tone, a tone which for some unexplainable reason made the Englishman's blood boil as he poured quite a large amount of maple syrup into the steaming hot coffee. England could see France eyeing the cup painfully, there was no way that either of the two Europeans would dare drink such a concoction but their little brother had a strange infatuation with the sweet thick liquid.

Laughing could be heard on the other end of the phone before a slightly disgruntled Francis continued onward "Monsieur I need a favor…" the words disappeared into the mouthpiece, the silent whisper of words barely reaching England's ears but he could tell that his older brother was afraid, and only a fool would dare not be. One only asked for a favor from a crazy man if he himself was insane.

More icy laughter could be heard as the Englishman grabbed a metal spoon from the stack of clean silverware by the sink, string the viscous syrup into the coffee filling the air with an insanely sweet sent that made the nation's eyes fill with tears. His French neighbor continued, nervously fingering the cord of the vintage phone "I need you to talk to my little brother…"

He was cut off by a silence on the other end; time seemed to stand still for what seemed like several hours. The only sound that could be heard was that of what seemed like that of a man finding out that he was no longer a child, filled with pain that everyone has experienced but no one could possibly explain. The feeling of being alone, of being unloved. The phone gave a loud click on the receiver, "He'll do it. Damn that man." Francis murmured.

England gave a simple nod before grabbing the coffee mug by the handle and opening the door to the dark room to face a crying young man "Canada?" He whispered with concern, concern for that fact that Matthew was covered in cuts and now drenched in tears and concern for what he would now have to face in the future. _It's all our bloody faults _Arthur thought as he neared the couch, placing the coffee and syrup concoction on a side table "I believe it's time I received some answers."

***Author's Notes***

"Chilling sounds that almost echoed those that his southern brother had uttered during his civil war, as England stood to the side and watched his brother bleed on the ground. _Mustn't get involved _he had told himself over and over, Arthur wouldn't allow that excuse again, he knew the pain that it had caused his favorite little brother, and it was all his fault."- A reference to the American Civil War, since Europe didn't get involved in the conflict it would be like England watching in another room as America tore himself apart.

"America at the height of the Cold War"- A period after World War II where the United States and the USSR had a time of conflict, although no bullets were exchanged hence the name "Cold War".

"Canada had gotten heavier since England had owned the child centuries earlier when he was a simple colony" – After the French and Indian War (also called the Seven Years War) England was given Canada as part of the treaties, since England won.

"the Big Apple"- Also known as New York City.

"'Bonjour mon amour'"- "Hello my love" in French, used an online translator (as with the rest of the French) so I'm not sure how correct the grammar is. "'Oui?'" – "Yes?" "'Bonjour monsieur,'"- "Hello Sir"

"unusually icy in New England this year"- New England is an area of the North Eastern coast of the United States.

"Francis had raised Matthew along with England"- Before the French and Indian War (Seven Years War) Canada was owned by France.

"'The American Civil War, I know'"- A Civil War in the United States between the North and the South, supposedly over slaves rights (not that it wasn't) but also it was biased on economic power, the South (confederacy) tired to secede from the North (union) but in the end the Union won.

Again I would like to apologize for the last strange chapter, and now apologize for this chapter's insane length, it took forever to write. Sorry about the delay between chapters also, I'll try to make the wait shorter next time but I can't guarantee anything (wow I'm apologizing for a lot of stuff). Also please read and review, because reviews make me happy.


	11. An Intervention

A soft sight escaped Matthew's mouth as he seated himself in a chair, the hard wooden surface providing little comfort in the icy cold of the room, a click of a lock tightly shutting could be heard behind him. He stared at the white stucco ceiling with a twisted expression on his sickly looking face as though part of him wanted to laugh in joy and the other wished to weep. Another pitiful sigh escaping his lips as his pale bluish purple eyes fell down upon his empty lap, England had not allowed his bear into the room for a reason unknown to the Canadian, his pale white hands rested uncomfortably where the bear usually sat, the scrapes and cuts that had previously coated them seemed outlined in miniscule red lines on his ice colored flesh.

Arthur had allowed the young man to clean himself before locking him inside of a frigid prison. The blood that had washed off his body had been more than any sane person had wished to think about, maybe that was way Canada's mind was drawn continuously back the image of the dried red liquid flowing down the drain, leaving raw white skin in its wake. The young man had cleaned his body and hair, all outward traces of his moments of madness had vanished down the shower drain but the scars on his soul seemed strong enough to leave scaring on his outward flesh. Each thin pale cut that surrounded his arms and torso was only an enth of the agony he felt inside.

Since he had awakened the pain that engulfed his body like a diluted flame had continued without fail, the sweltering embers eating at his skin and muscles. Each movement caused the tremors that came with the pain to increase throughout his weakened body. Matthew didn't dare let England know about any of this, the Englishman was already too involved in this murderous plot, the fewer people that the Canadian associated with the better, the man had decided almost as soon as he had awakened. It was better to suffer alone than force others to suffer with him, like how he had caused his brother to suffer.

His brother had been silent since the northern nation's blackout. He wasn't gone, Canada could tell that much, a strange presence still lingered at the back of his mind like a long resting parasite preparing to make a final attack on its host. Yet another product of insanity, paranoia. The list that created the young man's madness seemed to grow and strengthen with each passing moment.

The last words that his French brother had whispered to him before they had tossed the young nation into an icy imposing guest room seemed to be the loudest sound in the enclosure, the echo of the memory filling the space void of any noise other than the shallow Canadian's breath. _"Je suis désolé for all that we have and will cause." _had been the Frenchman's gentle words as the door had slammed closed, causing Matthew's stomach to do flips.

All that the young nation had been told was that an intervention was going to be preformed, and that he should be a good little colony and follow along, or at least that was what the solemn look on England's sleepless face had depicted sullenly for the insane Canadian to see. Both of his elder brothers had shifted uneasily as they had guided him to the room, their eyes seemed to move away from their younger brother as though he was moving towards his room of execution. He hoped so. He hoped that his elder brothers would have the power to take such pain away, but he knew that they could never do it. They were weak.

Still Matthew could feel the fear in his body, his arms shaking from pain and cold but also from fear that spread as quickly as blood pumped new fresh blood into his veins. _"Damn it you pansy, be a man!" _He knew Alfred would have said to him, but Alfred wasn't here right now.

"Damn it, Alfred is dead," Matthew murmured to himself, the softness of his voice still echoed around the room, he remembered a time when it wouldn't have even made a sound. But those days were gone, never to return no matter how much he wished them to. "Damn you Alfred, you coward," He hissed again, painfully hitting his knee, both his balled fist and his bruised leg erupting in a stream of hot fiery pain. His voice shook, Matthew Williams was truly alone, who would be an ally to a murderer?

The lock clicked behind him, the sound seemed like a gun shot in the silent enclosure, Canada's hands felt towards his jacket, a faded brown bomber, hanging on the back of the chair, his pale white fingers wrapping around the smooth icy handle of a black and gold gun almost by a sick natural instinct. Yes, just like his brothers, Canada was indeed a coward.

"You would try and kill me wouldn't you Canada, da?" A sickly sweet voice laughed from the opening door. The sounds of his icy laughter filled the room like frozen church bells all tolling out of tune "Well you will have to try harder than that."

Matthew felt his heart stutter in mid beat, his hands clutching the rough wooden slats of the chair. A hatred that was deep in his mind seemed to bubble up from the cement cracks of his soul, an intense loathing that the young man had never knew had existed in his heart. Because it had never been part of his heart in the first place.

"How sweet," The man laughed again, the heavy footsteps joined the sickly sweet sounds of his forcibly joyous voice "You remind me of little Liet when you make that face. " Shadows ate the older man's silo wet as he came into view, his body was covered in a rather old fashioned coat and a thick cream covered scarf ran down his long back.

Canada tried to pull his eyes away from the man, like how he tried to pull his hands off the gun. Both endeavors proved to be unsuccessful. The more he stared at the man the more he could feel himself losing control; insanity seemed as sweet as the other man's voice. He could not give in, but it seemed so much easier than the alternative.

"Well," The tall man continued moving forward towards the table, brushing long silver locks out of his bright purple eyes, he took a seat at the wooden chair across the small room giving the younger man a soft smile "do you know who I am, little Canada, da." The man cocked his pale head with an amused gleam in his wicked face.

Bile wasn't far down the Canadian's throat; he could feel his muscles trying to spasm as his hands clenched the now slippery gun between his hands. He felt sick. Sick at the sight of the man sitting across from him, as though the very idea of such a being helping him, as he assumed he would attempt to, was the most vile attempt of an intervention ever determined. "You're Ivan Braginski," Matthew choked from his closed throat in a mere whisper "You are," he held back the strong urge to yell the United Soviet Socialist Republic.

"Yes, I am the Russian Federation," Ivan replied his sickly smile growing wider as he crossed his legs comfortably, his large size making such a average chair look dwarfed. Matthew knew that he should have been afraid of such a man, like France, England, and his former self, but all he felt was hatred. A strange loathing that pulsed like a heart in need of blood, this wasn't him, this wasn't Matthew Williams. "You know why I'm here, da?"

Canada knew why the man was here, but he didn't want to admit it. His hands tightened around the gun, his nails cutting the opposite palms in a hope that the pain would distract him. The tinted gun caught the fluorescents of the room, almost igniting a smile on the Russian's face.

"I'm here to tell you that you're insane," The Russian continued as though his questioning was simply rhetorical as he glanced softly around the room with a smirk on his face. As though the man knew that the young nation across from him would desire nothing more than to pull the trigger. "It's not nice to point guns at guests" he smirked, his long arm stretching across the short distance between them his hand reaching into the jacket and yanking the gun from the Canadian's grasp as though it were just a toy "I learned that the hard way, da." The last words were a soft murmur to himself, trying to justify a past deed.

Matthew's mouth wanted to open in protest, to tell the man to give him back the gun. To give him back his soul, but none of those words left his parched lips. Instead in a voice as soft as the young nation had once normally screamed in him whispered "I. Am not. Insane."

"I'm sorry, I can't hear you da," Ivan murmured softly into his scarf, his hands folded around the shining black gun. He seemed to enjoy the feeling of it in his gloved hands, like some sort of lost friend. Canada knew the feeling, but he would never admit it to such an insane man. "Could you please speak up?"

"I am not insane," The Canadian cried out again weakly, but the strength that had recently become part of his voice had dissipated in a matter of minutes leaving him barren of a sound, as though he did not fully believe the words that escaped his pale lips. He would have liked to think it was as though nothing had ever occurred, but that was a lie. His hands were still covered in small red scars and the presence in the back of his mind grew along with the hatred for the man in front of him who smiled as though he knew the young nation's every thought. That man deserved to die, that _communist _deserved to die. Not himself. _This is not me, _Canada repeated in his head like a child repeating that ghosts didn't truly exist.

"Wait," The Russian responded looking slightly fazed for a second giving the young man a quizzical look before continuing "Who are you?" The worlds slipped from his wicked lips like a snake, filling the air with the scent of conniving hatred as the man's mouth pierced together to form a penetrating smile.

He was in the air. Matthew wasn't exactly sure how he had managed to get there but somehow in the matter of seconds he had pushed himself roughly from the wooden seat and propelled himself across the table that separated the two, previously rather peaceful, nations. A familiar force drove him, force his heart to beat faster than he could count, the same angry pain that had caused him to hurt Kumajirou, the same pain that had caused him to kill his brother, the same pain that had caused him to become corrupted. The simple wish to be known by the world was apparently too much to ask for. "I'm going to kill you, you COMMUNIST!" the man roared as he raised his fist to the Russian's face.

The smile on the man's face seemed to dissipate into a look of twisted fear, an expression that Matthew was sure had only been accomplished by one, now two, men as the Canadian's fist neared the Russian's face. "That is very like you." Russia murmured solemnly as though not speaking to the young man in front of him, but to another in the room, attempting to keep is voice from shaking a bit, which he did accomplish with practiced elegance. The older nation had done this many times before, but with a different man than the one moving towards him at that moment. They had both been different then.

The table came down hard against Matthew's chest, the air that had roared out of his lungs now being forced out from the sturdy wooden table. The loud cry echoed around the room as pain erupted from his chest as though his heart was being ripped apart. _This is not me! _ He wanted to scream out to the Russian forcing him down onto the table _I would never hurt anyone! _But the lies the Canadian murmured to himself were nothing but sweet nothings that could never be.

"Have your eyes seemed to be filled with the sea, young Canada?" the Russian sneered down at the young man and although Matthew couldn't see his scarfed face he had the sinking impression that bloodlust was embedded into the man's purple eyes. "Has your hair turned a darker shade?" the words escaped like bullets, piercing the Canadian in the chest as he slowly began to regain air into his deprived lungs. Then more lurching pain in his head erupted as a black gloved hand forcefully grabbed a hold of his long pale hair, forcing the two nations' purple eyes to meet in an electric ferocity that could destroy a country. Two men had given each other such icy greetings in the past, but they were not of the two that were in the current position. "Has your heart been filled with strife? Have you been hearing more than your own mind?" The man's words seemed to be filled with a twisted joy, and although the Canadian opposed at response it was as though there had been one shared between the two, for the older nation pulled the blonde locks upward still higher to get a long look at the once peaceful Matthew Williams.

"Go to hell," The Canadian sneered with a strange surge of power as adrenalin pumped through his veins. His scared pale hand shakily reached upward towards the Russian, his fist loosely making a rather satisfying smack, forcing the Russian's gloved hand away, causing the pale Canadian face to fall against the table. He could smell the blood that was now filtering into his mouth. Blood seemed inevitable in such a case. He could hear Ivan staggering backward, a rather disgruntling clamor ringing out as he fell back into his chair with the cracking of splintering wooden chair. "Get the hell out of my house, you communist." Matthew spat, a bit of blood familiarly running in a single file line evacuating from his mouth, pushing himself up off the table while his chest responded with shrieks of trembling pain which he did his best not to reflect a mirror image of on his face.

The only response from the opposite end of the room as the Canadian's feet slapped the floor caused chills to run through his very being. He looked down upon a man whose face was covered in something darker than inky shadows, if that was indeed possible, a twisted smile ran across the Russian's pale lips like a blade and the very way he sat seemed to resemble a man of the past that Matthew knew Alfred would just love to punch. A long string of laughter twisted its way out of the man's mouth, filling the room with the solemn ringing of bloody church bells. "Hate to tell you this, boy." A man that did not seem to be Ivan anymore spat sarcastically as he slowly rose from the chair, a large dent of splintered wood and rough wooden shrapnel lay on the seat, "but you are as insane as I am, maybe even more so." The smile that slid across his sickly face twisted farther upwards as though it were drawn in pen, he hands reaching into the inside of his illusive tan trench coat.

"Who are you?" Matthew cried out, the strength that his words had formally possessed seemed to drain from his body as though his very soul was leaking, his body felt thin and flimsy, almost transparent. He was almost afraid to allow his purple eyes to glance down at his hands to see if, like his scars, they were fading like those of a ghost.

"Why, you know who I am already, don't you Alfred, da?" The Russian sneered sweetly, but unlike before the young nation had a sinking feeling that the former soviet was not simply attempting to aggravate him, he was indeed serious as he said just lying words, or at least Canada hoped that they were that of lies.

"No, I don't" A simple silent cry, words seemed to be lost in mid air between the two men like a spectator had pressed the mute button. He tried to move his body but found that even flexing a finger shot tremors up his arms, causing them to burst into a feeling of red hot flames. His muscles melted and his blood boiled in a way that reminded him of his loss of control in the bathroom. _That will not happen again He_ though angrily to himself _I will not allow a delusion to control me. _

As though by fate the Canadian glanced fearfully down at his chest, in some superficial manner to make sure his own body was present, only to find a black gun in the hands of an enemy pointed gracefully at his white dress shirt. The black paint caught the fluorescents in the room in a way that seemed to allow the weapon to show its true paint job, Matthew swore he could see red, white, and blue blood smeared across the barrel, but it must have been his delusions because in a blink of an eye the device of mass destruction returned to its flat coat of paint.

"Well remember this Alfred," The Russian holding the gun smirked as his fingers moved towards the trigger "we had a war as cold as ice once before. Let's call this a reunion of such events, da." Ivan's gloved fingers began to tense on the trigger and Matthew had to smile.

How sweet death would be compared to this defective life, nothing had gone as planned. His brother was dead, his western neighbor was pointing a gun at him, and the whole world hated the young man that every nation had at one point or another come to love. Oh irony has a sickly sweet taste. _Yes thank you, kill me now before I go insane! Destroy me before I can bring an end to yet another man's life, it is only fair retribution. _But somehow the young Canadian's fickle words didn't stop his heart from racing and cool tears to flow from his blue tinted purple eyes and his pale white fists from shaking in a childish sense of pure and untainted fear that gripped his heart and strangled his insanity plagued mind.

Matthew never received such a wish, for as a single bullet flew from the gun's barrel echoing with a painfully reminiscent twang of several mornings previous, the Canadian swore that a cloudy apparition of a man in a bloody dress shirt and pale blonde hair jumped in front of his slowly falling body.

***Authors Notes***

"_Je suis désolé"- _I'm sorry.

"he held back the strong urge to yell the United Soviet Socialist Republic. 'Yes, I am the Russian Federation'"- The United Soviet Socialist Republic (USSR, CCCP in Russian) existed from the very end of WWI up until the ending decades of the twentieth century. The nation entered a "Cold War" with the United States, which caused a lot of people in the United States to really hate communism. The Russian Federation is the state that replaced Russian at the end of the cold war and the collapse of the Soviet Union.

"'I'm going to kill you, you COMMUNIST!'"- Unless you have been living under a rather large rock you probably know what communism is, but in case you don't….Communism was a theory created by Karl Marx (well it was actually it was socialism but…) during the industrial revolution because of the lack of rights for the working class as a reaction to the flaws of a capitalist society. It states that everyone should work to better the society without personal gain.

Sorry about the delay in the release, I was busy with school and Olympicing (watching the Olympics). Luckily it's spring break so there probably will be another chapter out sometime this week. Please review, I want to hear your theories and opinions so that I can improve my writing. Thanks!


	12. One Shot

Blackness surrounded the young man as he screamed into the abyss; there was not a soul to hear him. There was not a person who gave a damn about it, and neither did he. All that he knew was the insane pain that ripped through his being and another's, like a rift in the earth. Memories from long ago that he preferred to keep bottled up inside of the corners of his mind bubbled up from the invasive crack, flashing before his pain stricken eyes. Blood, carnage, bombs, killing; it all seemed to follow the young man where ever he went like a sickening plague that only he himself was immune to, his presence was a touch of death. He could hear other screams in the distance, screaming for someone to stop, for someone to let him be, but the young man did not fathom in all the swelling pain who this other person was screaming at, all that he knew was that the cries of the other exploded in his head like bombs, rupturing all that peace that had ever existed, louder screams scraping out of his dry throat. All that mattered was himself, all that mattered was this painful imprisonment.

For a single brief moment the world seemed to freeze, one gentle moment where the young man heard nothing but a silent joy, a warm glow of freedom seemed to surround him in a comforting bind. And then, as though by a wicked curse of fate, he could see, and then all he could do was scream. Before him, behind a pane of shimmering glass, was a young man who was a reflection of himself, or at least that was what the young blonde liked to tell himself even with a sinking impression that their roles were now deviously switched, covered in blood and tears and pain just as the young man in the mirror was, his face twisted in a mixture of pleading insanity and bloody hatred that corrupted his soul and mind.

"_My god, what have I done to you"! _He wished to scream out, but even in this moment of freedom his lips refused to move. With each attempted word pain shot though his head, boiling around his fear clouded eyes, burning inside his head like an unattended fire, feasting on the last bits of sanity his paranoid mind had managed to retain after nearly a century of nothing but doubt and judgment.

Instead the other man on the other side of the mirror opened his mouth in a ragging scream that scratched against this throat like the tips of nails "Get out of my head! Get out!" He rampaged; his eyes alight with bright purple flames as his red stained fists left the sides of the porcine sink, their blood splattering against the shimmering glass upon impact as the image of the Canadian shattered into glowing crystalline pieces. A retching shift echoed though the young man's chest as he looked down at himself in a flood of unrelenting horror that caused silent red hued screams to erupt from his mouth, his body cracked along with the glass, branching shards erupting like crimson tree branched veins across his face.

His chest exploded open in hot pain as pale tears fell from the young man's pain stricken eyes. The fire that had once been enclosed in his own mind melted downward, eating his limbs in an unbearable feeding frenzy "_Damn it, stop!" _He longed to scream out as his shimmering image smashed, flying though the air like shards of blood splattered snow.

"Why can't you just leave me be? You're dead! Why can't I just forget about you?" The Canadian screamed at the sky in a bloody rasping voice that echoed without mercy in the blood splattered latrines as his knees fell to the crimson drenched tile floor with a painful crack, fresh blood spilling from his pale knees onto the thin shards of glass.

The young man's heart shattered in pain along with the glass that enclosed him, tearful screams erupted silently from his mouth as though they were those of a phantom. His once fiery limbs shrieked as though they had been drenched in ice, freezing them in place for the test of time, every image that the Canadian created in his mind reflected in the young man's eyes. He could feel bodies surrounding him, their chests and hearts as silent as the young man's cries, their faces of the color of chalk, blood leaving their chests like an oozing discharge, one in particular looked particularly familiar, a single blonde cowlick erupting from his bloody face. His heart dropped at the sight, it was all his fault, each of these deaths were his punishment, his wrongdoing in this damned life. He opened his dry mouth for a mournful cry only to find the other blonde echoing the same gasping, sobbing words.

"What can I do? What have I done?"

The words were like dripping poison on their pale lips, slowly bringing a pleading death to those around them. Oh how he wished he could die, how he wished he could just end the pain that bound him in imaginary chains to his feeble existence that was only half of what life should be. _Kill me now! _ He wanted to scream, just as he had yelled to himself so many times out of a paranoid frustration in the past century, _Pull me from this madness! _But all that came from his lips was a wrenching scream that only himself and the Canadian were tormented with. "I have…" his mouth moved in a struggled metallic yell that caused the young man himself to jump just at the sound of his own voice, he had not heard the gut wrenching sound in so long he almost could not place it, the Canadian letting out a tearful cry at the alien ring "I have… to survive."

The Canadian responded with a yell that the young blonde could not hear, the blackness that once bound his soul crept along his arms with a hungry ferocity, binding his hands in shadowy shackles. Tears falling from his eyes as he returned to the place of silent servitude that he had for so long been bound, his first real moment of life he had felt in what seemed to be an eternity came to an end, the last tearful thoughts that wrapped around his mind seemed to echo around the solemn bathroom. _Oh god, what have I done? _

***

The scent of tea and scalding water drifted around the young man, his mind lurching out of its shackles in a brief moment of pain before being forced down into the corner of his suppressor's icy black chamber. The sounds of hot water splattering against titles rang throughout the blonde's ears; the heavy breathing of the Canadian was almost drowned out by their ranging jets of water. He let out a silent sigh and looked down, in an unexplainable way in which he could, to see thin red liquid whirl pooling along with lathered soap, his stomach flipping as he could feel his captor's lips turn upward into a sad smile.

_Oh god, what have I done?_

The Canadian stiffly shut off the hot water, carefully making sure that no trace of blood remained on the porcine sides of the tub, he wrapped a cool towel around his scared torso. It seemed like a whirl to the young man how fast his captor prepared himself for the day, carefully covering his arms and legs with an opaque layer of scratchy fabric, gently pulling the cuffs of his crisp shirt down around his wrists and hands to hide the razor thin slices of skin that had been taken out. Only for a second did the young nation dare look in the cloudy mirror, grimacing in pain at his own appearance, but much to the young man's satisfaction he found that the Canadian's eyes were clouded with a deep shade of blue. A silently triumphant laugh erupted from his mouth; one that he had once been known across the seas for now was trapped in Pandora's Box.

Another man's voice yelled from the other side of the door, causing the Canadian's and the young man's hearts to simultaneously jump. "Oye, hurry up Matthew we don't have all bloody day!" the Englishman called out from behind the white washed door, making no attempt to hide his obvious dissatisfaction with the Canadian's choice of pace.

"S'il vous plaît mon amour, donnez-lui un peu de temps." Another man murmured in what the young blonde believe was French, after all any other language to him was as good as ancient Greek. Obviously the other blonde understood for he immediately shot back a response before opening the door.

"Je viens!" He cried out, clearing his voice with a force innocence that did not seem to match the reflection in the mirror, "What exactly are we doing England?" He continued as he opened the door to reveal the two Europeans awaiting him impatiently at the frame of the door, casting each other glances that made the young man's heart drop.

"_They know about me!" _He yelled out for the Canadian to hear "_Hell! Run, run like hell you damned pansy!" _He slammed his bound hands against the walls of his inky cell, his screams echoing like an unresponsive pulse around the torture chamber, pain erupting from his wrists with each resistant yank against his bindings. Each rebellious movement caused a feeling of thousands of whips diving is back into crimson tattoos that wound their way around his torso in systematic lines, thick burns that relentlessly ate at his skin screaming out for ice that could never be found. Tears running down his pale bloody face mixed with fresh blood dripping against a seemingly transparent floor that only showed the endless chasm of impurity_, "Quit being an idiot, that's supposed to be my job!" _

The Canadian either did not hear his screamed replies, or he simply did his best not to give a fleeting care, for he continued out the door and down the narrow hall with a facedly brisk bounce in his steep. The young man knew of each tremor that ran up the other man's leg, or each burning muscle, of each nervous thought of what lay were his two older brothers were leading him. "You never answered my question," He said in a rather flat monotone that the elder men obviously didn't buy.

"We're planning, well a bit of an intervention you see Canada." The Brit whispered under his breath, shifting his weight nervously between legs, neither men looked that the pair as the door was gently opened.

"That is very sweet of you guys, but it's really not necessary, I'm fine." A painted red smile was drawn across the young Canadian's lips as he let out a soft laugh, fiddling guiltily with the tips of his cuffed dress shirt, pulling them down to cover his suicidal hands, his hands that still seemed to be stained in the young man's red, white, and blue blood.

"Je suis désolé for all that we have and will cause." The Frenchman replied sadly as they pushed the duo through the door, not looking into his Indigo eyes as the door slammed shut with the reminiscent ring of that of a prison. The smell of warm tea and wine that had once clung to the air seemed to sweep out of the room, leaving nothing but an expanse of white tundra to be filled with a set of two chairs and a rather small wooden table.

_Great, another prison _The young man thought dryly as his captor took a wary seat in the chair nearest to the door, sliding his brown bomber off his thin shoulders. He felt his heart give a lurch of painful fire, a strange feeling of indescribable jealousy that seemed to consume his very flesh swirled around his shackled hands like a catalyst, slowly unbinding the iron clasps. "_Why do you get all the fame, when I _allowed_ you to kill me? Why do you get the honor, when you only use it to hide in your corner? Live life you pansy or give it back to me!" _he snarled hanging his head as he felt the binding of his arms unravel like his own government until all that was left were the fleeting shadows of what had once been.

"Damn it, Alfred is dead," Canada 's voice echoed in the icy prison, the hopelessness that had once been masked in front of his elder brothers was now thrust upon the young man like a gift that he did not particularly with to receive. Tearfully hopeless words tore at the sides off the abyss's walls, if it did indeed have any, each syllable comparable to yet another bullet entering his chest "Damn you, you coward,"

He didn't understand why he reacted the way he did, in the past century the young man had become very skilled at masking his emotions with a fake smile, he had protected the art of hiding his true feelings behind a smoke and mirrors of a care free young man with a self indulgent attitude towards life, with those few words the walls that he had surrounded himself with came toppling down like a London bridge.

With the click of the lock that reminded the young man of an explosion his hands shot towards the gun, both him and the Canadian repeating similar phrases in their heads, _Since when has a hero been such a coward? _ He thought in a flourish of self disgust, still not allowing the gun held inside the pale white hands to slip from his captor's grip, no that would be foolish for the young man knew the nation behind the door as soon as his icy words left his mouth.

"You would try and kill me wouldn't you Canada, da?" The man smiled, his words digging into the young man's chest like a dagger, opening a wound that had slowly closed over several decades of harsh practice, his gritted his teeth, diverting his eyes from the older man's image. "Well you will have to try harder than that." His tolling laughter that followed caused the Canadian to jump slightly in the seat, gripping the gun harder than he had dared previously.

The young man's hands clenched into sweaty fists around the gun, his gritted teeth transforming into a snarled growl. _"Get out of my house, you Commie," _ He growled with such ferocity that he swore that the Canadian jumped. His heart quickened in pace with each invasive word, the poison that he wished was in his voice began to seep through the cracks and he swore that he began to see things from a slightly different perspective. A quick glimpse of alien fear entered his savage heart, which he foolishly cast aside without a second glance or worry of whose fears those were. He was finally in control, and he liked it.

"How sweet," the soft laughter continued as it combined with the heavy beat of his approaching footsteps in a tune that could remind the young man of nothing other than death and pain. "You remind me of little Liet when you make that face." The false smile that was shadowed by the man's thick cream scarf was painted in blood and tears, just the way he pronounced each word the young man could identify the hundreds of small fragments of memory when he said the exact same thing, of course they had both been pointing high power nukes at each other, but other than that small detail this situation didn't seem all that different.

The young man could feel his captor's hands attempt to leave the slick sides of the unfortunately reminiscent weapon, his heart filled with a painful doubt that the he had trouble casting aside. The blonde forced his captor's fingers to curl around the handle, he would not give in, he refused to let go, and he would not have his last chance at life killed out of fear from a man who dealt in darkness and snow.

"Well," the older man continued onward in his sick voice, taking a seat in the chair across from the two young men, cocking his head in a wicked smile before continuing in the sickly sweat voice that created very nightmare he could possibly imagine. The man across from him was the villain, the ultimate evil, the thing that should have never existed. But it did, and that thing that made the young man's stomach churn was not the fact that he had existed but the fact that he could not destroy the man seated in front of him with the snide grin on his crooked face. "do you know who I am, little Canada, da?"

The young man screamed, he punched the last of the paper thin walls the bound him from the outside world, he wished to point the gun at the man across from him's head more than any other within the world. Pure adrenalin coursed through his veins as he let out another silent scream, forcing himself against the thin walls of his captor's fearful mind, the Canadian fighting back his anarchist yells best he could, forcing a muffle into the young man's mouth, clouding his mind with peaceful thoughts that had nothing to do with the demon seated across from him.

"You're Ivan Braginski," The Canadian croaked out of his throat in a painful fright with the young man to voice his own rebellious mind to the man sitting in front of him.

"_You're a damned Commie that's what you are!" _He yelled upward as the thin walls that held him began to crack under his fists, small branches that seemed to bleed in a secret pain that it kept to its self, not daring to show the world it's true tormented colors. _"You're the United Soviet Socialist Republic!" _He growled even louder, his voice escaping the crumbling chamber between the cracks of the Canadian's weakening mind.

"You are," The young blonde continued, stifling back his captive's furious cries from leaving his own mouth, as though he were a rebellious puppet, trying not to show the twisted man that sat before him the fear and conflictment that played like a broken cassette tape in his polluted mind. He forced down the young man's words, bringing a ring of confused fear that seemed to permeate the walls of the crumbling chamber, such emotions that the hero simply brushed aside with a foolish disregard.

"Yes, I am the Russian Federation," The Russian replied with a smirk as he crossed his legs in the chair, causing the man to look even larger than he previously appeared, as though the wooden seat were several sizes too small for his large body. Not that the young man minded, he was used to the Russian's advantage in size, it only made him want to destroy the man even more, it made him wish he could leap forward wrapping his hands around the man's scarfed throat. Yes, he would enjoy that more than he would ever wish to admit. He would laugh as he did it, a bitter twist in his words, the single streak of evil that seemed to slowly spread around his once innocent mind like a malicious cancer. Ivan continued onward with a small laugh "You know why I'm here, da?"

There was a brief silence in which the two nations seemed to connect in a brief moment of scornful understanding; the young man was left out of this brief moment of rocky peace, his mind preoccupied on much more malicious schemes. As the two stared at each other the young blonde began to carefully piece together the occurrences that lead to his premature demise. They all led back to the Russian, each of them more scornful than the last. Each more concentrated with putrid hatred then that of the previous.

"I'm here to tell you that you're insane," the Russian continued, ignoring the Canadian's silence as though it were simply a moment of sweet meditation. As though he realized that the man behind the sweet purple eyed face would wish nothing more than to place the gun before his head and pull the gleaming trigger with a sick joy that would complete him.

"_And I'm here to tell you that I exist you damned Commie!" _ The young blonde growled at the man, his words did not leave the Canadian's mouth but the Russian seemed to understand what was happening behind the innocent guise of his young counterpart, for he continued onward with a snide expression on his pale face.

"It's not nice to point guns at guests" he seemed to hiss directly at the young man before smoothly snatching the gun from the Canadian's fearful grasp as though it were nothing but a child's toy, which in was in comparison to the things that the two had previously pointed threateningly at one others nations. "I learned that the hard way, da."

A rush of past rage welled inside of the young man as he screamed for the Russian to hand him back his only line of defense, to hand him back the very thing that had caused his bloody body to land on his own soil. But all that the young Canadian could manage to express out of any of his captive's furry was a very shaky and rather unconvincing "I. Am not. Insane."

"I'm sorry, I can't hear you da," Ivan murmured into his scarf, folding his gloved hands around and weapon as though it were a long lost friend, the young man knew the feeling more than he would ever like to admit. Maybe that was why in his last years of life he had carried a gun with him at all times, little good it had done him in the end, but the fact that he shared any trait in common with the _soviet _made him want to throw up. "Could you please speak up?"

"I am not insane," The Canadian captor repeated weakly, not daring to look into the Russian's identically purple eyes, as though they had been made from the same mold. No, the young man would never admit that one of his closest relatives would be at all related to such a man. It was merely a figment of his imagination; he was just an insane captive. He just needed a moment to think clearly, to see that his brother and his enemy were completely different but the more he looked the more he found that remained the same, because of his own presence. _Oh god, brother, what have I done to you? What have I caused you to become? _

"Wait," the Commie continued shrewdly, his purple eyes clouding with a rather quizzical expression as though he had just forgotten who he himself was and why he were in this room, before the corners of his lips parted in a rather sickening grin "Who are you?" he spat each world like an intentional bullet, this time it was not anger from the young man that influenced his captor but the other way around, a thick hatred so concentrated it seemed to drown the captive in a sea of misundstanding.

In a matter of seconds and young man found himself in the air, propelled by a foreign rage that he couldn't help but continue, adding vengeful flames to the fire which seemed to crackle in joyous bloodshed as the two flew across the table. He found his mouth opening and crying a singular scream with his insane captor "I'm going to kill you, you COMMUNIST!" He swore with a ferocity that seemed to shake his world, for a moment he swore he was in control, for a second he swore that he was truthfully alive and not just a phantom.

The smug grin was whipped off the Russian's face for a singular moment, his eyes looking at the duo with a twist of fear and nostalgia. He took a hesitant breath inward before continuing, bit of fear that shone in his purple eyes shown through his resentful words like sun though tissue paper. "That is very like you." His words filled with spite, he had done this many times before, but not with the young Canadian that was currently flying at him, but to the man behind the innocent mask. Yes, they had both had meetings like this many times before, but things had been different then, things always seemed to be different.

The table slammed against the pair's chest, both crying out in a brief moment of pain as the air was forced out of their lungs in a single moment. The Russian's hands holding him down to the table, splinters of blood and wood flew around him only to settle a few feet away, he tried to take another breath but found that his chest couldn't rise, that he was indeed trapped between a Russian and a hard place. "_Let me out!" _ The young man gave a muffled hiss to his brother, fighting that shadows that seemed to grow in the corners of his mind, the dark bindings that had kept him captive for so long had come to take him back, come to make him their prisoner once again. He would never let that happen. He would never dare allow his heart to bow to the will of another, that is what made him himself, that is what made him the hero.

"Have your eyes seemed to be filled with the sea, young Canada?" The Russian glared down at them, his eyes, though hidden in shadows, were filled with a savage blood lust. A grin that extended from the corners of his face let out the icy laugh of church bells that hissed in the young man's ears, ringing even after the laughter had subsided. "Has your hair turned a darker shade?" Almost to make his own point the young man could feel the Canadian's long light colored hair being pulled up, hot fiery pain shot down his face as he stifled a soft alarmed cry, forcing the two nation's bright purple eyes to meet with an electric spark that neither in the past had possessed. No, the two that had possessed that spark were dead, or at least that was what should be in a merciful world. "Has your heart been filled with strife? Have you been hearing more than your own mind?" The man laughed, is eyes glowing with the darkness of a bloody Sunday, his eyes, the young man swore, were painted the color of blood, of evil, of the villain, for as long as the two shared their gaze the longer they seemed to realize who they were looking at behind the masks that they were wearing. Behind the peaceful facades that they had created for the rest of the worried world in the past century, for the world was made more of lies than truths.

"Go to hell," the Canadian spat, his red lined fist reaching upward towards the Russian, slapping his black gloved hand away, his face clamping against the table. Blood filtered into their mouth, slowly diluting but still strong enough to wake the almost sleeping beast, almost enough to feel alive, if only there had been more, if only he could get more blood to be spilled if it meant being alive once again. As though by a recording the Canadian sneered, repeating the words of the young man with such frustration one would think they were in fact one in the same "Get the hell out of my house, you communist."

Pain erupted from his chest, a way out, that was the only thing that the young man could think of as the walls fell down around him, crumbling around his burned body like his fallen empire. Crumbling like the life that he had once possessed. Blood slowly rose from the ground as he heard the Canadian's feet land with a satisfying thunk against the floor as the young man screamed, screamed for freedom that he had always wished for as the world around him fell to pieces.

Chills running down his fading torso simultaneously with his brother as the Russian spoke, the shadows in his voice reverberating around the room in a thick Russian accent that had not seemed so prevalent only a few moments previously. "Hate to tell you this, boy." The man that did not seem like the Ivan the two young men knew hissed as the shadowy darkness in his voice grew into a thicker smog with each passing phrase, slowing as though the voice was struggling through mud. Ruffling fabric and the cracking of splintered wood rang out in the chamber like a sick melody as the mad man continued "but you are as insane as I am, maybe even more so."

"Who are you?" The Canadian cried out in wishful ignorance, the young man already knew who the nation in front of him indeed was, although he wished with all of his heart that it was not true. He wished that his brother did not have to deal with such a wicked being. His bloody fists erupted in pain as he banged then against the crumbling walls, crimson running down their black surface like a fresh coat of paint, sliding freely to the bottom of the endless chasm. He felt stronger, he felt close, the light had to be coming soon, he had to be almost out of such an internal prison, he had to have been punished enough to leave this purgatory.

"Why, you know who I am already, don't you Alfred, da?" the former Soviet hissed at the phantom, his words were not loaded like before, to make the Canadian show his true colors, but aimed at the dead man that should not have been present, that should not have existed in the first place.

"No, I don't" The Canadian whispered in reply, as though that was all his vocal cords could manage as his lungs slowly caught aflame, that the London bridge finally fell, a warm glow that had not existed around the young man slowly began to immerse him with the scent of wine and tea, with the scent of his joyous childhood back when life was simpler. Light slowly began to filter around him, in a glow that he would have expected to be warm but was the icy feeling of snow, icy hands wrapped around his pale white neck, insane hands wrapped around his body in a bloody death scramble. The last of his brother's words that remained in his head rang in his ears like a sickly melody.

_I will not allow a delusion to control me._

"_No brother, nor will I."_

"Well remember this Alfred," The Soviet hissed softly the young man could see his brother, looking down at him with pale purple eyes. His face twisted in a fiery pain that was apparent to the onlooker, was engulfing his body once again. The slices on his hands cracking as they balled into surprised fists while the young man was pressed up against his brothers chest, he could feel the blonde's tensed breathing, the sweat falling down his back, how his heart pumped with a strange joy of the closeness of death that only those who are insanely suicidal possessed. "We had a war as cold as ice once before. Let's call this a reunion of such events, da."

_Oh god brother, what have I done to you? Why have I gotten you into this?_

He watched the Russian pull the trigger of the Canadian's gun, joyful tears running from his brother's purple blue eyes that seemed to wish for nothing more than a death as simple as the one that he was about to receive.

He didn't think, which was fairly usual for him, as he pushed Matthew to the ground, as the sounds of a gunshot that was not meant for him echoed around the guest room, a bloody expression of the Russian flickering before his eyes, as, just as the moment the bullet entered his falling body, Alfred F. Jones finally felt truly alive.

***Authors Notes***

"known across the seas for now was trapped in Pandora's Box."- A box given to humanity by the gods that was filled with all the monsters and evils in the world plus hope.

"'S'il vous plaît mon amour, donnez-lui un peu de temps.'"- according to google translate it means "Please my love, give him some time" in French, not its not yaoi, remember from chapter ten that France calls England "my love".

"'Je viens!'"- "I'm coming!" in French.

"'Je suis désolé for all that we have and will cause.'"- "I'm sorry for all that we have and will cause."

"toppling down like a London bridge."- taken from the old nursery rhyme "London Bridges falling down", in truth I know very little about the London bridge.

" of course they had both been pointing high power nukes at each other"- During the Cold War the United States and the Soviet Union both developed plenty of very dangerous weaponry, thankfully none of it was used, accept the space program of course.

"'_I exist you damned Commie!'"- _not a particularly polite name for the Communist.

"We had a war as cold as ice once before. Let's call this a reunion of such events, da."- Referencing to the Cold War, which was a really more of a conflict between the United States and the Soviet Union. No one was killed (that I know of) but very dangerous weapons and an anti communism attitude were developed in the United States.

Ok, well this is technically a bonus chapter, I guess, so you really didn't need to read it. But what fun would that be? Sorry if the writing is not up to the usual quality, I found it quiet hard to do all that long dialog exactly the same but still change it enough to show that there was a new point of view. So anyway next chapter the story finally moves onward! Please rate and review, I want to know how I'm doing and what I need to improve.


	13. What We Know

Pale hands gnawed at his chest, clawing away at scared white flesh as though they were searching for something that was hidden beneath the red cracked surface. A soft voice let out a cry as he tried to dive into his chest, ripping out the bullet that he knew had to be hidden inside, ripping out the corrupted soul that had to be contained within, the evil that he knew must come out of his body, the pain that he knew should have left as the bullet had exited that lovely weapon. He could feel blood on his hands, blood from his own doing and he couldn't help but smile. Served a murderer like him right, served a demon like him right. A soft laugh erupted from his lips, soon shifting to that of an icy cackle that almost reminded one of the sound of lonesome bells, as the world avoids their desperate crying rings, not wanting to hear the painful words in which they utter.

Hands forced down the clawing arms, pale and cold fists that were a fleeting breeze in the air, seeming to drift gently in and out of a shifting existence, as though the hands were in fact, not really there. Their grip on the Canadian's arms never faltered, binding the young man down to his own bed like a secret prison. Forcing him down when he fought, punching him when he punched, covering his bloody mouth so that the world did not have to be forced to listen to the agonizing screams that it so graciously dreamed to spreading like a cancerous anarchy. This was the young man's fleeting burden, only he alone kept the Canadian to the institutional bed. As one of the Four Police, it was his duty, or so he wished, or so he thought.

The thrashing didn't stop as the night progressed; hot fire ran through the Canadian's body, screams echoing in his mind like past souls seeking vengeance, images of smiling faces burning before him shot past his purple eyes as terror filled his heart. The Russian laughing as he burned the world to the ground. The American laughing as he burned the Russian's world to the ground. He had to stop them. He had to get the bullet out of his chest; he had to get that bloody curse that the superpowers had placed inside of him out of his soul. So he clawed and dug and cool hands forced and wrenched his red stained nails from the wound in his open heart, the very man that had placed the corruption inside of his mind screamed in the distance as the world burned, his voice was nothing but the palest of whispers fading into his now more dominant voice.

A laughing face loomed before his thoughts, refusing to remove its presence from the blackness that crept along the blood stained edges of the once white world. Purple eyes bore into his chest, sending rows of ammunition into the open wound, cries that the fleeting hand couldn't cover escaped the Canadian's bloody mouth filling the air with waves of chilling agony, penetrating the very souls of the other dissipating man that did his best to stifle the cries so that onlookers who leaned against the thin walls of the guest bedroom couldn't hear the pain.

It was best that they did not hear the bloody renactment that was played on the red stained sheets, chilling bells longing for recognition no longer rang solemnly out of those outside the room, no, those had long ago been replaced with the screams of guns and tanks. One would like to imagine that if only they had come in time, if only they had listened to the lonesome bells, then the pain in the world might have been spared, but not such thing was done. No European brother entered the room; no friend or ally came to help the damned nation, only a phantom of a once great hero cried for him.

As blood stained black began to cloud the flames that rose before the young man's eyes the icy words of another man ran through his mind like a stream of ice, briefly quenching the flames that surrounded him, if only for a moment allowing the weight on his chest to be lifted before the chilling shock of what such words had brought along with the frost relayed. _"This means war, da." _ And the world was stained a sickening shade of maroon.

The scent of grease and fast food wafted unpleasantly around Matthew, causing his eyes to stir as he shifted, immediately sending jolts of pain from the center of his chest outwards. Letting out a soft cry and young man's blue eyes flew open as he clutched his bloody heart, small bits of dried blood flaking off onto his grasping hands, as though covering the wound would cover the obvious expression of pain that covered his face. His abs contracting as he attempted to sit himself up in the thrashed sheets that surrounded his marred body before icy hands forced him back onto the bed; he let them, somehow not having the energy to fight any longer.

"L'eau s'il vous plaît ..." He choked out of his dried throat, a few flakes of dried blood flying into his mouth like the victims of a disease that had so long plagued his people, but no longer did exist in his land. A straw met his outstretch lips that contained not the pure water that he so dearly longed for but some sort of dark soda. Not that he could complain, any sort of liquid was very much appreciated and seemed like a godly ambrosia that poured down his barren throat. It soon left his blood caked lips as he let out a few tensed breaths before attempting to push himself upright once again.

Once upright the room came into full view, along with the ungodly smell of fried foods intensifying with each rising centimeter. He was in the same room as before, walls in a light tone with not a single window to allow natural light, or escape. The young man's eyes drifted softly to the floor where he guessed his body had fallen. No red stain lay where he sound have been. Where he should have died. Where he wished he could have died. He should be dead.

But he wasn't, somehow his body had remind mostly intact, he couldn't say so much for his soul. His very being seemed to ache, a weight carried on his back like a second thought, constantly there but never at the front of his mind, never sure what burden he was truly bearing and for whom.

The Blonde's blue eyes drifted further about the room, still searching for the thick red that should have coated the floor. That lovely bullet had to have fallen graciously into some lucky object, whatever it was the Canadian was truly a jealous man. The red was nowhere in sight, although he did find the source of the fast food, a white and red bag resting atop a nearby chair, the broken table that had once been in the center of the torturous guest room now seemed to consist of his bed. Blue eyes hunted for the hands that had helped him down not that long ago in their icy death grip, forcing him into suppression like an old friend with his best drug addict. He found no one, not even the twisted Russian, in the room other than his own breath.

"Tu sientes muy bien más rapido. Yo deberia sabé." A shadow passed over the young man's face as a devious voice spoke rather poor Spanish, causing chills to reverberate up and down his bruised and beaten back as though his voice was from death itself, as though it were speaking for what was to be repaid. The sound seemed to come from nothing, from an icy patch of air that filled the entire room with its twisted presence. A soft laugh echoed about the room, though not unkind it had a thick scent of sarcasm twisted inside, with a bit in cynic for good measure, like the sound of lonely church bells chiming in frozen air, longing to be heard while the world refused to listen. "Of course," murmured the phantom, a bit of sadness breaking the normally ignorant laugh, "you wouldn't be able to see me. I guess vengeance is sweet." Another bit of sick laughter erupted about the room, sounding more like a painful howl than a true bout of joy.

Matthew took a sharp breath inward, the frigid air of the room filling his lungs, causing the pain in his chest to rise and fall in a clairvoyant unison. Closing his blue eyes and Canadian tried to drown out the twisted laughter, finding it a mirror of his own heart. He didn't want to hear. All he had wanted was peace for gosh sake, all he had wanted was a simple taste of recognition. Neither had happened, yet it had all happened, and so quickly, as fast as the laughter leaving the phantom's mouth. He had wished to live in a peaceful world that knew of his existence not more than four days ago, now all he wanted was to be the sweet young man who so ignorantly listened to his boss while a gentle white bear nuzzled his pale hands. It was a dream, and it was never going to happen, things wouldn't, couldn't, ever remain as they once had been, no matter how much the twisted blonde's soul desired it.

He didn't respond to the savage laughter, only closed his blue eyes tighter with each progressing moment, gripping the blood splattered sheets with stark white knuckles. The Canadian had never been afraid of ghosts of any sort, not that he believed in any such thing to begin with, but somehow this seemed different. His heart lurching in rhythm with the wicked sound, as though they were one, and with each passing moment that very heart felt like it was sinking with dread. "What do you want America?" He whispered coldly, the words barely passing through his clenched teeth and tightly pressed lips as though they fought from his mouth uttering a single sound.

"Is that all that you have to say to me?" the voice hissed with the ice that had coated that ground in his all too real dream the sound of hidden pain and spit reflecting through each note like the unseen side of a mirror kept hidden in the cold hearted man's soul, a piece of himself that he never dared allow any other being to see now seemed to be the only bit that still remained. "'What do you want?'" snarled the air in front of the young blonde began to shimmer, as though space itself was being bent around the invisible outline of the speaker "No 'why didn't you love me, brother? Why didn't you make this pain go away?' or what about," the sound grew closer, icy hands wrapping around the Canadian's wrists as he spat in his face " 'why didn't I kill a damned puppet like you when I had the chance?'"

Each word hit the Canadian in the chest, reopened wounds that he had purposely hidden deep inside the wound in his chest, forcing out weakness like a twisted surgeon, removing everything that stood in the way of his one goal, to cause as much agony as possible. The wavering outline of a smug smile shimmered in the air, the thin shades of blonde hair and caked blood flowing like diluted water colors carefully taking their form, the only part set in stone was a set of burning eyes that blared strait into those of his brother nation like a predator looking at its new opponent. A few days previously the young nation would have basked in that gaze while shrinking back in a mixture of pride and terror, he would have never dared intrude on his nuclear happy neighbor to the south. Now all he did was return an equally cold glance before exhaling softly and replying, "Alfred, why the hell are you alive?"

A mixture of cynical and light laughter filled the air as cold hands removed themselves from the Canadian's wrists, their restricting reign over his world coming to an end. "I wish I could say that with such confidence," the young man laughed at his brother, the stool seeming to move its self as the materializing nation took a seat, pulling a burger from the fast food bag, ignoring the fact that he, not moments earlier had seemed to have a strong desire to soak his hands in the Canadian's tainted blood. "To be alive, ha" he scoffed, the bag ruffling in an obnoxiously loud volume as he continued to wrestle with the extreme packaging the fast food restaurant had gone to to keep the food fresh, offering Matthew a bite, which he refused, before stuffing his own mouth with the greasy meal. "Thinking like that seems at bit optimistic to me."

Matthew glanced at the burger with a bit of disgust before taking a sip of the drink that went along with it, the soda providing similar relief to the last swig, but like an addictive drug the second taste would never bring as much pleasure as the first. "I thought you where the leader of optimistic situations, always looking forward with your manifest destiny," he murmured between sips of the dark colored pop, trying to keep his voice at a level of calm in which it had not stayed for what seemed like several days. How long had it been since he had even had a normal conversation, if discussing personal outlooks on one's life with a dead man was to be considered an average occurrence.

Nearly snorting up part of his burger the young nation did a particularly poor job at hiding the laughter that bubbled up from beneath his still slightly transparent surface, "It's hard for one to be optimistic when you've become one of your greatest fears," a strange fog seemed to cloud the American's eyes as he went in for another bite, as though he were seeing a different reality than the young man in front of him, a reality where all the world knew the weakness that had slowly torn away at him for the past century, as though he were forced back into the memory of how the fear of his own shadow had been acquired. "I do believe," he murmured as the smoke cleared "it's time I answered your question."

Taking a long breath America placed the half eaten burger to the side, adjusting the glasses on his still rapidly solidifying face, other than his eyes Matthew swore he could see the young nation's normally grinning face twisted into a grimace filled with a pain and loathing that the Canadian swore had been a reflection of himself less than a week ago as he drenched his hands in his brother's blood. Turning his face upwards the blue eyed man stared with flat disks of blue into Matthew's now set of blue eyes before speaking, "I exist, or at least in a way," the young man murmured, almost so quietly his brother would have sworn it was the wind if he hadn't known any better, he would have sworn it was his own voice being swallowed up by the world, "when you tried to kill me all those days ago, my body died as soon as the bullet fell against by chest, but my soul stayed alive."

The icy hand made contact with Matthew's warm shoulder, chills rippling outward from its frigid grasp. The strange arctic hand grasped his shoulder like an old friend, almost reminiscent of the icy blast that had replaced the fire in his mind with a world of frozen tundra, burning him in ways that fire couldn't. The shock ran through his body as though the hand was a messenger of death, no warmth leaving the gloved surface as it pulled back, realizing the pain that a simple touch could bring to the living. All the while Canada couldn't pull his eyes from the solidifying presence that sat before him, as though his brother had hypnotized him "I need you to understand this, Canada." He whispered, almost with a sneer that clouded all good intention in his voice "That day at the White House I died. But I will never be dead as long as the spirit of my people is kept alive. A nation can never leave as long as in spirit its people believe in its existence, that's what we are, Matthew. We are the spirit of our people, the hope and pain that fills their lives each time they pledge their allegiance to the flag, the joy that they feel in early July at parades as they watch our flags fly down the streets. I cannot die until that is gone. I cannot leave until there is no person left on this earth that does not call themselves an American."

As the hand slowly left Matthew's shoulder it felt as though life returned to his body, warmth flooding his arms and legs as though it was trying restore life that had been stolen from them, and by glancing at his brother's outline he swore that the American looked more alive than he had moments before placing his hand on the Canadian's shoulder. Chills still clouded his mind as his brother finished speaking. So he had failed, he hadn't been able to kill his one rival even when it had been so apparent, even when there was a corpse to burry. He had failed at his one goal, his one dream of a peaceful shelter in this world. Where had he gone wrong? Where had this path twisted from a justified vengeance to a blood bath a murder, to corruption and pain? He knew the answer, although in all his heart the young man longed not to admit such a painful truth to himself, admit why he had taken all the roads in his life he had ever chosen, why he had become the docile brother and Alfred the superpower.

Canada was a puppet, following the will of those about him without a second glance. Allowing England to use him in the war of 1812, allowing America to use him during the cold war, allowing his boss to use him, no that had been him. That had been the young puppet cutting his strings, that had been the young man taking matters into his own hands, thinking he could purify the world just like the ideas of his stupid brother. He had become more like him simply by wanting to create peace, an image of a younger version of his brother in the mirror, a stupid puppet of the past. That was all it seemed that they had ever been, puppets for their superiors, useful toys for the rest of the damned bloody world.

Letting out a soft breath the words slowly hit him, his mind cooling as he shifted, the physical pain forcing down dark thoughts that bubbled up in his mind, dried flecks of blood forcing themselves outward from between that white bandages that circled his chest, forcing the pain deep inside, hiding it from the young nation that sat across from him. Raising his hand slowly Matthew touch the bandages, pain rippling from the lip of his finger, causing a sickening smile to trickle across his face as the pain flooded his mind bring back thoughts that had left his mind for what seemed like ages, but was really more of mere moments, forcing up thoughts he had purposely avoided. "Where did the bullet go?" Canada blurted out bluntly "why did you save me?"

A look of shock briefly surfaced on the American's face before his features quickly moved to mask the bewilderment with a smug grin, as though by covering up his weakness the world wouldn't notice that their where holes being worn slowly away from his once unified body. "Why isn't it obvious?" He laughed as his face came into clearer view, the reflection of Matthew's stark white face reflected from a pair of heartless bifocals and although the notions were serious enough the Canadian swore the young nation's next words would be _Because I wanted free heath care, _"If you die then I'll go down with you and your maple syrup." He replied starkly, the shadows that fell on his face became more opaque by the second, but Matthew swore that there was something off about them as though they were attached to his skin like a boy from Never land.

All he could do was stare as the America rummaged in his dress shirt, as though to look for a tattoo that he had received one late night after losing quiet a large sum of money in a gamble. Canada remained silent as the darkness in his mind rejuvenated, sucking down his thoughts like a vast whirl pool. _His fate is under my control. He is my puppet, my state; I can do what I please with him. I won. _ As the words twisted around his mind a smile twisted upon his face, like a child realizing the power that they had over a parent after watching them panic after not being able to find them in a mall. An ice cold piece of metal forced itself into Matthews's cool hand, falling from the air like the shooting star, a frigid chill running through the Canadian as he turned the small piece of metal around in his hand. He was familiar enough with the shape, he had seen it many times in the past few days, a single bullet lay in his palm.

"Does that answer your question?" the American sneered, waiting for a response that never came as the Canadian stared into his hand at the bullet from the Russian's gun, the minuet piece of metal that should have entered his chest, that should have killed him. Nodding in at the silence America continued all the while his voice never raised above a soft whisper, almost so silent that the young nation had to strain to hear its sound that had once made rooms silent without a second thought, "He declared war on you, you know, the damned Commie." The blonde's voice, although well masked with a tone of extreme grief and worry, one could find a small piece of snide joy inside, as though it had been his secret wish for almost a century. "The bullet was never meant for you, if was for me. I guess dear comrade Ivan wasn't too pleased when he found out that you finished me off before he could get to me." A bit of light seemed to return to his face as he murmured those words, as though the very thought of denying a past rival of any chance to defeat him was sweeter than any sort of satisfaction on the planet, even sweeter than building as many large buildings as he possibly could cram into his cities.

Liquid pain flew through Canada's body as he attempted to slide farther up in the bed, complaints of the many aches and pains that he had denied rest for several days came bubbling up to the surface. Swallowing the fire the young man finally managed to get himself into a seated position before continuing what felt almost to be an interrogation. "Why the hell would Russia want to go to war with me?" He almost regretted asking as the American burst into a bout of cruel laughter that seemed to barely move the air in the room, sounding more like a stifled scream than any sort of twisted humor.

"Isn't it obvious? You defeated the main enemy of his country for most of the twentieth century, someone he wanted to put a bullet to the head, well more frankly a nuke. And quiet honestly if I where him I would probably do the exact same thing, you don't let another man take a task that was assigned to you to begin with, that's just plain un-American," the last phrase making the blonde chuckle a bit before continuing, "You're also now the largest nation by land measurements in the world, that would be considered a major threat along with the fact that you now have your own weapons, plus my own, and a few more of my own, of course. No nation wouldn't feel threatened by one large land block having that much power, and some would even want if for themselves, like our good old buddy Ivan. Any more questions?"

"Oui," Matthew murmured, his eyebrows coming together to form a deep crease in the center of his pale forehead "There's only one problem with that theory, Alfred," the words that left his lips seemed to quiver in the air as though they didn't want to be asked, as though they never wanted to be exposed to the world, especially in front of the man that sat before him, "my nation doesn't have a nuclear program, not anymore at least. Remember, I stopped helping you with your little lethal game of chess quiet some time ago."

The American glared strait into Canada's blue eyes, glasses reflecting the painfully bright lighting in the room so that he couldn't see their now vibrant and quiet opaque, glow. "You seriously can't believe that," America relied with a rather matter of fact tone that the world rarely saw but was always present every time a word left his lips. "You seriously don't think that boss of yours wouldn't make a few nukes here, a few missiles there, until he finally had enough to attack me in my own damn air space!" Hands balled into fists, volume sharply increasing from a murmur to what seemed almost to be a yell, Matthew swore he felt then collide with his chest wincing a bit although it felt like nothing but a soft breeze had blown a bit harder than normal, thick, heavy breathing filled the air before America spoke again, his voice almost silent as though it had used up too much energy all in one moment, "You have no clue what I'm talking about, do you?" Alfred didn't need an answer and continued to hoarsely speak before the young nation could even give a rushed reply.

"The day I died," the words left America's lips as though he were having trouble forming them, sounds hanging in the air before being pushed away by the high powered air conditioner, "your boss attacked my northern half, he cleared all Canadian traffic to the States and launched several missiles, and one atomic bomb," the last words fell off his tongue like they were made of syrup, slowly leaving his mouth as though he, in fact, was still in shock about creating his own problem, not that that was uncommon, it had happened, hundreds, thousands of times, "we fought back with our own weapons, not knowing about the bomb. When it was finally dropped several miles outside the Big Apple everything fell to shambles, even though the heart of the city was still functional. The whole damned military went into a frenzy, the city, the country, had no clue what to do. And all the while that demon had sent a little puppet to keep me busy. I wonder who that was, aye brother?"

Canada finally knew what they where, the shadows that clung to his brother's face as though they were tattooed on. They were burns, twisting mangled remnants of the wounds they had both suffered the day he had died, only for Matthew they had faded quickly with the new amount of power and land he had obtained, for America they remained permanent reminders of what his brother had done to him. They would never fade and the young man understood for the first time that if his brother was ever to come back to power he would have made a very powerful enemy. He would never let that happen, if he did it would mean a sure death. "Non, pas la moindre idée," the young nation murmured quickly as his mind worked things out, not even taking into consideration that his brother hadn't spoken a word of French since early colonization.

He was used to being used; it was the sad truth of his existence. Since the beginning Canada had been used for some resource or another, whether it be furs in his early days or even plutonium and air space by his own brother during the Cold War, he was used. The young man, in truth, had never been able to act in his own actions, had never fulfilled his own desires. Yes, he had indeed believed it was his own will that drove him to kill the apparition in front of his face, and that may have been the slightest bit true, but behind the brave young face was the hand of a manipulative politician.

"Oh Canada," America murmured as he picked up the burger that had fallen on the floor, feeling if it was cold or still toasty enough to eat, obviously it passed his rather low standards because the remaining piece of beef on the now grease saturated bun went into his mouth. "Where is that bear that you always have with you, what's his name, Kamikaze?" the American choked out as he gestured to his brother to hand him the half empty container of dark colored pop.

"Kumajirou," Matthew responded rather flatly, handing his brother the soda. Not thinking for a single moment about absence of his once beloved friend, or the simple fact that the one voice of reason he could once hear in the world had been drowned out by a much less reasonable and much more twistedly justified one.

"Ya, that. Where has the little guy been as of late?" America asked, finishing off the soda in one last rather obnoxious slurp through the straw, his transformation from the serious nation a few moments earlier to the rather ignorant young man slurping a soda and inhaling fast food never ceased to amaze Canada, causing him to wonder how his brother stayed sane, or if he even did at all. "I swear when we were younger you two were inseparable, you even took him to bed with you. Why haven't I seen him for the past few days?"

The world was filled with silence, as though someone had pressed the mute button. The only sound was that of Matthew rising from the sheets, ignoring the pain that radiated from his chest as his bare feet slammed against the floor harder than expected. Yanking a worn brown leather bomber with the number fifty on the back from its resting place on a nearby chair the Canadian stormed out of the room, wrapping the jacket about his bare torso.

"Where the hell are you going?" Alfred asked, following the Canadian in hot pursuit as though there was a magnet inside him that didn't allow the two nations from being separated. As they stormed down the hall the reason became obviously apparent as the Canadian slid a set of car keys off the ring by the door, slamming it shut hard enough that it almost seemed as though the old style building would crumble in the reverberations. No, Alfred didn't need to be told where Matthew was headed, he already knew. "You know I just had my communist vaccination recently, so it's safe for me to join you on this little affair." No, he knew where they were going. Canada was going to the one place where his bear could possibly be, and that place just so happened to be with his boss at the white house.

Once again Canada had been used as a puppet.

***Author's Notes***

First I would like to apologize for the rather long break that I took, it took awhile to write this chapter and also school kept getting in the way. Well at least that is done now so I can concentrate more on writing. Also sorry if this chapter was a bit dull and a lot to process but I had to fit it in, but don't worry, the angst will return very soon. So to make up for not writing in awhile I give you, super long authors notes! Well, that and a bit of a bonus section at the very bottom of the notes, but sure to read it. Please don't forget to review.

"As one of the Four Police"- The Four Police where the brain child of FDR. Basically it was an idealistic approach to have Russia, China, England, and the United States be the peace makers of the world at the end of WWII by using nuclear weapons. The only issue is that the United States and England would be the only ones with such weapons and the only ones that even knew about the Manhattan project where upper level officials in the United States, England, and Canada. Also Churchill didn't support the plan, thinking it to be unrealistic, also he secretly wanted to use the United State's weapons to create a nuclear energy monopoly after the war, it is unknown whether FDR was aware of this fact though. Man I really dislike Churchill.

"'L'eau s'il vous plaît ...'"- Water please…

"'Tu sientes muy bien más rapido. Yo deberia sabé.'"- first off I would like to say that the spanish was done by the friend of mine and I, neither of us are native speakers and thats the point, if America where to speak another language it would be spanish and his grammer would be far from correct. Here's what it says "You feel very much more quickly. I should know." Here's what it should say- "Your feeling better faster than I expected. I should have known."

"'always looking forward with your manifest destiny'"- Manifest Destiny is the American idea of reaching from the Atlantic to the Pacific, it was fairly popular in the eighteen hundreds and the government went to great lengths to achieve the goal, such as removing native peoples and going to war with Mexico over Texas, by winning the United States received the western area of the country.

"'the joy that they feel in early July'"- Independence day is July 4th and is often celebrated by parades and weird foods (basically I don't like potato salad…).

"Allowing England to use him in the war of 1812, allowing America to use him during the cold war"- The war of 1812 was pretty much the United States wanting more land, it was fairly pointless and although many Americans think we won in truth we lost pretty badly. Also the United States burned down York so in turn the British burned down the White House. During the Cold War Canada adopted similar policies to the United State's "Red Scare" and also developed Plutonium and Uranium for the United States to use in weapons (that information is from Wikipedia so take it with a grain of salt.)

"_Because I wanted free heath care"- _ Recently a health care bill has been passed in the States, and there has been a whole spew about how it's communist and such.

"They were attached to his skin like a boy from Never land." – Never land is from Peter Pan and it's a world where children never grow up, also there is a part at the beginning of the Disney movie where Peter tries to sew his shadow back on with a needle and thread.

"'The damned Commie'"- A not so nice term for a Communist.

"'That's just plain un-American'"- In America people have some strange fetish with things having to be "American", and with that is pretty much being manly. It probably doesn't help that it's memorial day so pretty much everything is red, white, and blue.

"'Oui'"- Yes

"'My nation doesn't have a nuclear program, not anymore at least. Remember, I stopped helping you with your little lethal game of chess quiet some time ago'"- Canada provided the United States with Plutonium and Uranium resources during the cold war and also helped develop weapons. (Information is from Wikipedia so take it with a grain of salt).

"'the Big Apple'"- A slang term for New York City.

"'aye'"- There's a stereotype that Canadians say "aye" a lot, so it a way America is mocking Canada. Please tell me if I spelled this wrong.

"'Non, pas la moindre idée'"- Not a clue

"'Oh Canada'"- The name of the Canadian National Anthem, again America is mocking Canada.

"'What's his name, Kamikaze?'"- Japanese suicide bombers during WWII.

"'You know I just had my communist vaccination recently, so it's safe for me to join you on this little affair.'"- Some people in the United States (not saying all, actually is rather small minority) think that Canada is not just socialist, but communist.

***Bonus Section***

The crash of a gunshot rang in the Englishman's ears, something had gone horribly wrong, he just knew it as the sound of a falling body followed in hot pursuit. Letting out a cry with a volume that even surprised himself then man's hand shot towards the door, pale hand wrapping around the knob as it turned from the opposite side of the thin passage, bronze handle rolling under his fingers, wrenching any grip he had upon the metal. He knew the only possible person who had the key to the door, he knew that that one man was where the shot had left and a young man lay on the floor. He couldn't fathom it being the other way around.

_Then why does the bloody git want out so badly? _ A small sound in England's head hissed bitterly as he relinquished control of the door, knowing full well that it would come crashing open any moment to reveal the panic that lay beneath the thin surface. Russia wasn't afraid of anything, he had always knew that, that was why England had allowed the untrusted past ally to intervene instead of himself, he feared what he would see past the thin walls of lies he had created to hide the truth from his eyes. What could be so terrifying that it would send a mad man running for cover like a frightened dog?

Even though the Englishman stood back the door still flew into him, knocking him off balance, landing on the floor much harder than he had expected, glancing upward to see the Russian walking briskly out of the room, not even attempting to hide the smoking gun. No, it was almost as though he were showing it off for the nation to see. This wasn't the Russia that he had sent into the room, England knew that, he had seen this man many times before; this was the man that his past boss had longed to obliterate from the face of the ear. The nation remained silent as he heard the intruder step down the hall and the door slam, all the while his mind heart pounded in his head, knowing he should go into the room and held the poor chap that probably lay of the floor. But he was no America; unlike his colony he was bloody afraid of the Russian.

Not until the door finally slammed shut did England finally move, grabbing the bag filled with a burger and a fizzy drink. They had always been his little brothers favorite, somehow he couldn't imagine give a person anything different as a way to regain their trust, even though he was quiet aware that his other colony didn't have an apt likening for fast food. Slowly rising to his feet the man entered the room, first being hit by a wave of fringed air that froze him to the bone as though he had just stepped into a Soviet labor camp before glancing around. He froze, blood chilling to the bone before dropping the food on a side table and briskly taking his leave, doing his best to ignore the blurred shape of his younger brother staring at his bloody chest with twisted fascination.


End file.
